


24K Magic

by Justalittlelouislove



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Amazing friend Niall, Drinking, Famous Harry, M/M, Writer Louis, mentions of drug use, negative portrayal of a bi character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 07:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16593773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justalittlelouislove/pseuds/Justalittlelouislove
Summary: “I know, I bet you want an autograph.”An...what? Louis’ jaw drops open, actually hangs open, as he gapes at him in absolute and utter disbelief. Right here, on a Friday night in London, Louis has happened upon the biggest douchebag in the history of the world. Surely he should contact someone. A record-keeping organisation or something.“You think I want an autograph,” Louis repeats slowly. Maybe if the guy hears the words back clearly enough he’ll comprehend the level of asshole he’s throwing out into the universe.It doesn’t work, Mr. Douchebag of the Century just smirks and leans into Louis’ space, well more into his space, “Mmhmm, we’ll have to go up to my Penthouse. That’s where I keep my pens.”orA fic based on 24k Magic by Bruno Mars, in which Harry's a mess and famous, Louis is a mess and not, Liam and Zayn are probably hiding something, and Niall is a horrible flatmate.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, [Lauren](http://fullonlarrie.tumblr.com/)
> 
> This took forever and I'm super sorry about that, but I'm a hot mess and it just can't be helped. I hope you like this, it's your brainchild after all. I love you very much.
> 
> Thank you to Chels and [Comingoutofmycagedoingbad](https://comingoutofmycagedoingbad.tumblr.com/)for reading this over when I felt like it was awful. You're encouragement is so appreciated. 
> 
> My beta [brokenheartsgoupthere](http://brokenheartsgoupthere.tumblr.com/)
> 
> worked so incredibly hard on this. You are the most patient and supportive human ever and your help made this fic 1000 times better.

Louis’ eyes have been open for all of two minutes when Niall quite literally bursts in through his bedroom door, sending it banging into the wall behind it. Happily humming a tune, and wielding two garment bags, he looks more like he’s filming an upbeat breakfast food commercial, than barging into someone’s room unannounced and uninvited. 

“Morning Tommo, didn’t think you’d be up yet,” he booms cheerfully, laying the bags over the back of the desk chair.

Tossing back the covers and swinging his legs down to the floor, Louis glares at him, “Awfully fucking loud for someone who thought I’d be sleeping, aren’t you?” 

Niall, in true Niall fashion, flounces back out of the room, not paying Louis a second of attention. He goes into the kitchen if the sound of slamming cabinets is anything to go by. He’s probably searching for the blue mug that he likes to use. It’s in the dishwasher at the moment, and if Louis was feeling nicer he’d tell him, but the rather rude wake-up call has soured his mood a bit. 

Louis shuffles into the kitchen in socked feet, just in time to see Niall give a little shrug that translates to  _ fuck it, I’ll use another one _ , and pour himself a cup of tea. Rounding on Louis, he never drops his smile, “Picked up your favorite suit from the dry cleaners.”

Louis pushes past him to get a mug, giving him an extra shove for being so annoyingly awake. 

He pours himself a cup with a scowl, “I don’t have a favorite suit. All suits are cut from the devil’s cloth, and created for the sole purpose of stealing the liberty from a man until he’s ready to jump from a building.” 

Niall nods along, unperturbed, “Well the one that enslaves you the least, then. Are you going to do your hair yourself or is Lottie going to come to do the swirly thing?” 

“I don’t know,” Louis grumbles, taking another tentative sip, “How rich are these people that you are forcing me to socialise with?” 

“If it weren’t for me forcing you to socialise, you’d grow roots into the fucking couch, and I’d end up having to plant you in the garden,” Niall states, sounding far more like an old Irish Nan than any 23 year old has the right to, “And very, very rich.”

“Root vegetables would probably make better company,” Louis grumbles. 

Turning to get the milk from the fridge, he catches his reflection in the stainless steel. It’s a wonder Niall hadn’t screamed in fright, he looks like one of the extras on that Zombie show. 

“We’d better call Lottie.”

 

Two hours later, thoroughly primped and a bit peeved, Louis slides into the back of the Bentley. He makes room for Niall to scooch in and raps a knuckle on the back of Liam’s head playfully. He’s got the heat turned up so it’s nice and cozy, which is the kind of thoughtfulness Louis really appreciates in a bodyguard/driver/friend/goalkeeperwhenNiall’skneereallyhurts. 

“Alright?” Liam asks cheerfully, brown eyes smiling back at them through the rearview mirror. They’ve only known each other for a little under a year, since just after the move to London, but their friendship’s been  easy from day one. 

Niall slings his body between the two front seats and bops Liam on the nose, “Sure we are mate, and how are you?” 

Liam plants the palm of his hand on Niall's forehead and shoves him back before carefully pulling out into traffic, “I’m tops, you know me. Excited to spend the evening rubbing elbows with the tip-top of London?” 

Niall settles back easily and pulls out his phone with a quiet huff of laughter. 

Louis rolls his eyes so hard he sees a vision of his first Primary teacher. 

 “Yeah, I’m positively chuffed, can’t you tell?” 

The theme song for Candy Crush plays quietly from Niall’s phone and his face glows with the colorful lights bouncing around his screen. He doesn’t even look up to bat away Louis’ hand when he makes a grab for it; moving the phone to the side swiftly as he grabs Louis’ arm and pins it under his own. “Louis is always a grump though, isn’t he? He should be thankful that I’ve made rich and famous friends for him to write terrible stories about.” 

The struggle of getting his arm free is making Louis sweat under his collar, “Maybe you could actually do me a favor and get rich and famous enough so that I can write terrible stories about you and not ever have to leave my house.” 

Liam waits for the car ahead of him to make a complete stop at the light, before turning around with a smirk, “Yeah, Niall, I’ve only heard your song on the radio seventeen times since I left home an hour ago. That’s three less than yesterday, I think.” 

Niall smiles, pleased and proud of himself, “Sorry about that, I’ll see what I can do to get rotation back up.” Turning to Louis, he releases his arm but keeps his own arm up, ready to defend himself, “And you need to stop complaining. No one has ever died from a little bit of socialising.” 

Not yet, Louis thinks sullenly, but the night is still young. 

 

Just as he suspected, the room is far too crowded to be comfortable. Really though, Louis thinks as he takes stock of the people milling around, he wouldn’t be comfortable in any sized room with these people. 

It’s not like a club back home, people dancing, joking, drinking. These people are practically robots, with their fancy clothes and fake smiles. They’re crowded together like sardines in a can, but somehow manage to not be touching. It’s unnatural. 

Niall nudges him over to the coat check and glances around them, “Not a bad crowd, music could be better.” 

Louis snorts. It would be better if it was loud enough to drown out the fake laughter and bad jokes he’s sure to have to endure, for the rest of however long they’re going to be here. Which. 

“When can we leave?” 

Niall gives him a bland look. It seems his patience has run out, that’s on him for waking Louis at nine am, isn’t it? 

“Just a few hours, Lou. Go chat some people up, drink a little, it will be over soon enough.” 

With a wink, he’s off, moving through the room, stopping every few feet to clap someone on the back or shake a hand. Louis rolls his eyes at his back and makes his way in search of a drink. One will steady his nerves, two will make the fake niceties a little more bearable. 

Towards the back of the room, there’s a large group of people milling about, most likely that’s where he’ll find alcohol. A brunette in a short, purple dress, with diamonds dripping down her neck, turns away from the bar with a pink drink in her hand and looks right through him as she teeters past on sky high heels. Louis ignores her right back, walking through the cloud of musky perfume she leaves in her wake, and slips into the small space she leaves behind. 

The bar is one of those modern affairs, all sleek marble and glass shelves. It’s cold against his forearms as he props himself up, waiting for the bartender to look his way. There’s a lot of chatter happening, but as he glances around him, he can’t seem to find a single person who looks like they’re actually listening. A sea of beautiful faces nodding along with dead eyes. 

“Hey, mate what d’you need?” Louis snaps his head around and winces at the irritation clear on the bartender’s face; he’d probably asked him more than once. 

“A jack and coke would be good, thanks,” He gets a curt nod in response. Louis’ eyes drift to the wall behind the bar, layered in gold and purple curtains, hanging ceiling to floor. God, he’d give anything to be back in his local pub right now, playing pool and drinking a pint, surrounded by walls dressed in fading wallpaper and dart holes. 

The bartender hands him his drink and inquires about starting a tab. Louis figures he might as well. He pulls out his wallet and hands him his card, a little distracted by a flurry of activity to his right. 

One high pitched giggle tells him what he needs to know, without him having to turn and confirm it. Some rockstar or movie star or  _ something _ star has just made a dramatic appearance, and the birds are flocking like seagulls down at the pier, only about 75 times more annoying. 

Louis grabs his drink quickly and turns from the bar, hell bent on getting out of there. Before he can make it even three steps, someone bumps into him, and his drink splashes over the edge of his glass and sloshes down his arm. 

“Fuck,” Louis groans, shaking his sleeve out and eyeing the damage, “Sorry mate.” 

“I like a man who takes the blame,” a deep voice responds, slightly slurred around the edges, and laced with laughter.

Louis looks up sharply and finds the rockstar he’d been trying to get away from, complete with green eyes, shoulder length chocolate curls, and what Louis genuinely suspects is pink lipstick. No one’s lips are naturally that shade, is all he’s saying. 

“I’m just being polite,” Louis snaps, “I’m not surprised by your confusion in the face of manners though, seeing as you’re the type to blunder around in cramped spaces and knock people over.” 

“Ouch, pretty boy bites,” the stranger’s eyes light with amusement, although he visibly works to train his face into a somber expression. He presses his hand to his own chest in penance, “Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to knock into you. How can I earn your forgiveness?” 

He snaps his fingers between them, apparently having an epiphany, and Louis looks at him in stunned confusion, “I know, I bet you want an autograph.” 

An...what? Louis’ jaw drops open, actually hangs open, as he gapes at him in absolute and utter disbelief. Right here, on a Friday night in London, Louis has happened upon the biggest douchebag in the history of the world. Surely he should contact someone. A record keeping organisation or something. 

“You think I want an autograph,” Louis repeats slowly. Maybe if the guy hears the words back clearly enough he’ll comprehend the level of asshole he’s throwing out into the universe. 

It doesn’t work, Mr. Douchebag of the Century just smirks and leans into Louis’ space, well more into his space, “Mmhmm, we’ll have to go up to my Penthouse. That’s where I keep my pens.” 

It keeps getting worse. How does it keep getting worse? “Is that a pun? Are you chatting me up with a pun?” 

For the first time, the confidence dims a little from the other man’s perfectly sculpted face, “Well, yes it’s a pun,” he says with a little furrow of his brow, like a confused puppy, “Don’t you think it’s funny?” 

“Do  _ you _ think it’s funny,” Louis asks, huffing out an incredulous laugh. 

Now the man is full on pouting, “Everyone thinks I’m funny.” 

Louis rolls his eyes, “No, they don’t. Not unless you’re telling jokes in an old folks home or summat. Everyone thinks you’re rich.” 

Douchebag doesn’t seem to have a response to that one, just stands there blinking at him with his freakishly long lashes. So, Louis shrugs and turns to go, he’ll down this drink and then find some blonde socialite to stand around and pretend to listen to. 

A firm grip on his bicep stops him before he makes his escape. Eyebrow lifted in question, he glances at the hand and back up to its owner. 

“Harry,” he says, so quietly it’s almost swallowed up by the music and the sound of the people, “My name’s Harry.” 

Louis nods, gently tugging his arm out of Harry’s grasp, “Well, Harold. Have a wonderful evening.” 

 

An hour later, Louis is on his third drink, nodding along while a leggy supermodel laments the disaster that is the Spring fashion scene. She’s only just started in on how trite and frankly overused flowers are, when Louis spots Harry across the room. 

He’s swaying slightly to the music, a little out of time, obviously a fair bit past drunk. There’s a blonde woman wrapped around him, who Louis thinks, with a small tilt of his head, might actually be keeping him from moving more freely. She’s chattering on about something, red painted mouth moving like an auctioneer, and pawing at the front of his shirt with her matching dark red nails; maybe looking at the huge tattoo across his chest. 

Maybe thinking about ripping his heart straight out through his rib cage, you can’t really tell with those types. 

It’s not the woman that gives Louis pause though, it’s the vacant look in Harry’s eyes. He might have been an arrogant douchebag, but when he was hitting on him, he looked like he was actually there, actually aware of what was going on. Louis hadn’t registered it in  the moment, too astounded by his brazen attitude and rudely gorgeous features. But, he’d been the only one of all these people that had anything behind their eyes. 

Not now though. And something about that was terribly wrong. So wrong that Louis starts moving through the crowd without his brain giving his body any instructions; without telling the girl he’d been standing with anything - not that she would care, she’d probably do just fine if she simply turned and spoke directly to the wall. 

Harry’s vacant expression doesn’t change when Louis comes into his line of sight, but he’s pretty sure he remembers him from earlier. 

“Having a good time, Harold.” 

The woman unravels herself from Harry’s torso to glare at Louis with piercing blue eyes. 

“His name’s not Harold,” she sneers, her top lip curling up like a rabid alley cat, “How do you not know that?” 

Louis smacks the palm of his hand to his forehead and gasps dramatically, startling the woman visibly. She turns, letting her arms drop away from Harry, and eyes Louis with confusion. 

“Oh my god, thank you so much for enlightening me! How ever will I pay you back for bestowing upon me your infinite wisdom,” Louis gushes. To his right, a man comes into his line of vision, seemingly watching the interaction, and Louis smirks, “I know, how about I set you up on a date?” 

With the type of speed only possessed by those who have a hand in raising several babies at a time, Louis snatches her wrist and spins her way from Harry, directly into the other man’s arms. She gasps and wobbles on her heels, but Louis doesn’t bother looking back to see if she lands safely. 

Stepping forward he waits for Harry’s eyes to find his. They’re still vacant and cold, it makes something like dread trickle down Louis’ spine. “Hey, how about you show me that Penthouse now?” 

Harry blinks at him, and a slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. He’s got dimples, and Louis is taken aback for a second by how much younger he looks when they pop up in his cheeks. Also a little disturbed by how they look in contrast to his leering expression, “Yeah?” 

Louis nods, batting away Harry’s hand, when he tries to take another sip of whatever concoction he’s got in the highball glass he’s clutching, “That’s enough of that, I think.” 

Harry pouts beautifully and tries for another sip. Louis smacks him a little harder, “Have you got a misunderstanding of what ‘no’ means, mate?” 

Harry freezes and blinks three times rapidly. His eyes look almost normal now; he tilts his head like he’s considering something and then suddenly his expression shifts - less leering and more contrition, “Just been a long time since I’ve heard it, is all. We’ve got to find the lift.” 

Louis wants to comment on the shift in Harry’s demeanor, and the fact that he’s a spoiled rotten man child, but now’s not really the time and what does he care anyway, “Yeah, I think we can manage, come on.” 

Tangling their hands together Louis marches through the room. He’s prepared to push people aside, maybe even looking forward to it a little, but apparently walking with Harry is like being with Moses. The entire room just shifts and lets them through without a second thought. 

Just right of the lift, because he’s probably magical and just hasn’t admitted it yet, is Niall, standing with a small brunette and looking at Louis expectantly. 

“Are we taking him home,” Niall asks with a chuckle, “Not sure we’ve got enough room in the car for that amount of leg.” 

“You’re Irish,” Harry blurts out, leaning forward with a huge grin. 

Niall matches it and puffs his chest with pride, “That’s right, mate.” 

Louis rolls his eyes and nudges Harry back with his elbow, nearly falling to the floor when Harry stumbles and yanks on Louis’ arm on the way down. “Jesus Christ. This is Harry, he apparently lives in the Penthouse and he is entirely too drunk. I have decided that I am fucking Mother Teresa and I’m going to bring him up. I’ll call an Uber, yeah?” 

Niall cackles at the end of Louis’s speech and claps him on the back, “Alright, mate. I’ll see you tomorrow then.” 

Harry has managed to get himself back on his feet during their exchange, “Look, the lift,” he exclaims, with unbridled excitement, spotting it over Niall’s left shoulder. 

Niall fights back another laugh, absolutely delighted. Louis glares at him, “Pray for me.” 

They get into the lift with very little trouble; Harry is back to quietly stumbling around behind Louis. And then it’s only a couple seconds of confusion, and wrestling with Harry’s far too tight trousers, to get the Penthouse key in the slot and the lift moving. 

While it rises, Louis feels a prickle of awareness along the back. Bringing his eyes up, he sees Harry’s reflection in the shiny metal of the lifts walls, watching him intently. 

“You go around staring at people like that, someone’s going to think you’re a nutter,” Louis grumbles, rolling his shoulders back. 

“Just waiting for you to give me your name,” Harry says, not dropping his gaze. His words slur together like syrup and move just as slowly, “Not a nutter.”

Louis huffs, watching the numbers tick up on the indicator above the door, “Yeah well, when you don’t blink or breathe-” rounding on Harry, he fixes him with a suspicious look, “Why are you not breathing, are you a vampire?”

Harry blinks, “No?” 

Great. Try to be a good samaritan and look what happens to you. Drained of all your blood in a lift, that’s what. 

“That’s not the type of question you answer with another question, Harry. And my name’s Louis.” 

The lift dings and Harry stumbles out immediately, grumbling, “‘S rude to call people vampires,  _ Louis.” _

Louis steps out after him, intent on asking a few more questions, just so he can be sure about the vampire business, but his breath catches in his throat and he freezes to the spot. 

For a wild moment, Louis thinks that Harry lives outside, in some kind of open air flat. But then his brain catches up and he realises he’s looking through walls of glass, floor to ceiling crystal clear glass. The flat is sleek and modern, like the rest of the hotel, as far as Louis can tell. But he doesn’t get a good look at his surroundings before he’s rushing out of the room in search of Harry and the source of whatever terrible smashing noise just sounded through the flat. 

He finds him in the next room, sitting cross legged on the floor with fat teardrops rolling down his cheeks. There’s a palm plant upended on the floor, with its soil piled around it. Harry’s holding little white pieces of ceramic in his hands. When he looks up, Louis sighs at the pathetic look on his face. 

“Broke the planter,” he hiccups out. 

“I see that, love,” Louis says gently, “Come on, up you come.” 

Hauling him up by his armpits, Louis stands him up and takes the pottery from his hands, “How about you get in bed, yeah?” 

“Will you be joining me,” Harry flirts, but he lets out a sniffle, and suddenly, gone is the confident, egotistical bachelor from earlier. Louis watches him drop the act and stumble over to his king sized bed, and thinks, now Harry’s back to an overgrown puppy. 

Without a care for his bazillion dollar outfit, or his white duvet, Harry plops down face first onto the bed with a groan. Louis’ job is done. Harry is free from the demon woman, he’s safe in his flat. He’ll have a killer hangover in the morning, no doubt, but Louis can’t work actual fucking miracles, so. He’s free to go.

But he’s still standing by the door, hesitating. It’s just that, well, the guy’s trousers are about fifteen degrees past what a normal person would deem tight, and that just can’t be comfortable. 

“Hey, Harry,” Louis calls, walking forward to nudge his foot with his thigh when Harry remains unresponsive, “Don’t you want to put on something less,” he flounders for a second looking for the right word, “less awful?” 

Harry doesn't move, but he does mumble something absolutely unintelligible into the duvet. Louis nudges him again, and then again, and then somewhere around the eighth nudge, Harry turns his face with a groan. 

“My outfit is not awful,” he complains with another hiccup, “Obviously you don’t work in fashion.” 

“Nope,” Louis confirms proudly, looking around the room and finding nothing but sleek white walls, “Where’s your wardrobe?” 

Harry groans again, because apparently, besides being the world's most giant douchebag, he’s also the world’s most dramatic, and points towards the wall across from Louis, “Just like, press on it.” 

Louis walks over to the wall, squinting at it dubiously. Why do rich people have to make everything so fucking difficult. A handle. Would a handle be too much to ask for? 

It takes a couple tries, but the door does swing open after being pushed just right, and behind it Louis finds enough clothing for a small army. 

A very flamboyant army. 

“I don’t know why I was expecting anything else,” Louis says, mostly to himself, while shoving the clothes around in search of something normal. A t-shirt maybe, maybe just something not silk, “Do you own anything without a Gucci tag on it?” 

He comes upon a black button up shirt with little bumble bees on the cuffs. This one isn’t that bad actually, way less flashy than the rest of the stuff, anyway. 

“That’s Versace,” Harry slurs smugly, like he’s proved Louis wrong or something. Because there’s such a huge difference between Gucci and Versace. 

Louis turns around to tell him so and gets an eye full of a huge butterfly tattoo stretched across Harry’s chest. And every other tattoo on his body. “Why are you naked?!” 

Harry looks up from the bed, confused by Louis’ reaction, “This is how I sleep, I thought you wanted me to get out of my awful outfit.” 

Louis spins back around and stares at the closet, listening to the sounds of Harry getting into bed, “Are you decent?” 

“As decent as I’ll ever be,” Harry answers around a yawn. 

Louis turns back around slowly, just in case he’s lying, and for a moment they just look at each other awkwardly. Harry breaks eye contact first, letting his eyes drop to Louis’ hands, and Louis realises he’s still holding the Versace button up. Clearing his throat, he hangs it back up hastily and closes the door back up. Rockstar doesn’t need clothes, apparently.

“Well, it’s been a blast but it looks like it’s time for me to go,” Louis says with a little shrug of his shoulders. 

Harry leans over and rummages through the night stand, pulling out a little notepad and a pen, “How about that autograph?” 

Louis narrows his eyes. “You’re kidding, right?” 

Harry shifts in the bed, letting the duvet pool around his waist. Louis resolutely doesn’t let his eyes drop past Harry’s neck. 

“I was thinking maybe you’d give me an autograph actually, maybe with your phone number,” he asks in his rockstar voice, making one last attempt at bravado, but he eyes are looking heavier by the second, and all the slow, sleepy blinking is doing nothing for his image. 

Under normal circumstances, Louis would scoff and walk out without a second glance over his shoulder. But, the difference between the Harry that he’d met downstairs and this soft, sweet creature of a man, has him walking over and taking the pad and pen. 

“I suppose I could do that,” he says quietly, writing down his information. When he looks up, Harry’s already fallen asleep, his long lashes casting a shadow against his cheeks. 

Louis lets himself out as quietly as he can, hitting the lights as he goes. Down on the street, while waiting for his Uber, he allows himself a second to glance up at the building. In his mind’s eye he can see Harry tucked into his huge bed, sleeping soundly. 

“See you around, Curly.” 

 

The next morning, Louis and Niall are lounging on the couch with legs practically wrapped up together under a blanket, watching reruns of Top Gear because neither of them feel like finding the remote, when a knock sounds at the door. 

With matching expressions of confusion, they peer at the door and then back at each other. 

“Are you expecting someone,” Niall asks with a furrowed brow. 

Louis gestures to their stained shirts and crisp crumb littered joggers, “Yes, Niall. This is exactly how I like to look when I invite the Queen over for a spot of tea.” 

Niall kicks him in the shin and then promptly scrambles down the couch and out of reach, taking the bag of crisps with him. “Who is it then?” 

“I don’t know do I, these aren’t my x-ray glasses,” Louis grouches, pushing himself up off the couch. The knock comes again, a little more insistent this time, “Alright, alright, keep your knickers on.” 

Niall snorts from the couch, “You’re going to be sorry if that really is the Queen.” 

Louis throws him the finger over his back before unlatching the security chain and swinging open the door. On the other side stands a man in a perfectly cut grey suit, with a sour expression marring his breathtaking face. He’s got a narrow build, but his shoulders are straight and rigid. His hands are clasped behind his back in a way that pushes out his chest and accents his almost nonexistent waist. 

Louis’ first thought is that this poor man had forgotten to turn around at the end of a catwalk, and had simply kept going, then looked up and realised he was very far from home. 

“Good morning,” the man says in a way that sounds a whole lot like  _ fuck off _ , “I’ve got a package for a Louis Tomlinson.” 

Louis’ eyebrows creep up towards his hairline, “You’re a delivery man?” 

The strangers eyes flash, and for a second Louis has to fight the urge to step back. But no, be intimidated in his own flat? Not happening. Anyway, Niall’s probably got his back if Mr. Cheekbones gets too bold. 

“I am under the employ of Harry Styles, and as such I have many duties. Today, I have been awarded the pleasure of bringing a package to a Mr. Louis Tomlinson. Have I got the correct flat?” 

If words could slice, Louis would have been minced meat pie from his tone alone. He almost gives in to the urge to check himself for damage. “That’s me, yeah.” 

From behind his back, the man procures a large package wrapped up in white paper and tied with a black bow. After handing it off to Louis, he gives a curt nod and turns on his heel, leaving without another word. 

Louis watches him go and then retreats into the flat, locking the door behind him. Niall clambers up from the couch, and joins him as he walks into the kitchen, and puts the package onto the table. Together, they stare down at it with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. 

“Is there a card?” Niall asks quietly, like he thinks he’s going to disturb it or something. 

There doesn’t appear to be one, and the non delivery man hadn’t given him one. “I don’t think so. But the guy said he works for Harry Styles.” 

Niall’s neck snaps around so fast, Louis actually fears he’ll end up in a brace, “You’re getting gifts from Harry Styles now? I thought you didn’t sleep with him.” 

“I didn’t,” Louis says defensively, “Anyway, you don’t know if this is a gift. It could be a bomb.” 

“People don’t put bows on bombs, Lou.” 

“Oh, you’re a bomb expert now. Be sure to put that on your C.V.” 

Niall laughs and shoves at his shoulder, “Just open it, you fucking prick.” 

He takes off the bow first, taking a second to tie it around Niall’s neck like a collar, and then rips through the paper. The box underneath is brown and nondescript, giving no clues as to what it's harboring. Niall nudges him a little to get him to hurry up and open it. 

Inside, there's tissue paper, that Louis pushes aside to find black fabric. When he lifts it from the box, he recognises it instantly. 

“Harry Styles is buying you shirts?” Niall looks like he could be knocked over with a feather. Honestly, Louis can relate. 

Niall grabs for the label on the collar, and then slides down into one of the chairs in disbelief, “Harry Styles is buying you  _ Versace _ ?” 

Who even does something like this? Vampires with staring problems, and a soft spot for potted plants, apparently. 

Louis folds the shirt up carefully and puts it back in the box, “Well, I obviously can’t keep it.” 

“What are you going to do?” Niall asks, accent thickening with every octave his voice climbs, “Send it back? That’s fucking rude, mate.” 

“I’m fairly sure it’s a little more rude to accept a shirt that’s worth more than this month’s rent.” 

Niall scoffs, “Harry’s literally a millionaire, this is nothing to him.” 

There’s a stress headache forming behind his right eye, because that’s what Harry does, that's what Harry is, a big headache. Louis stomps around the kitchen table and flings open one of the cabinets in search of medicine. 

“That doesn’t matter,” Louis insists, gesticulating wildly, “It’s not nothing to me.” 

“First of all, Mr. Degree in English-Professional-Writer, that’s a double negative,” Niall points out pompously. Louis spins around, and Niall wilts a little under his glare before hurrying on, “Second of all, what are you going to do, walk it to his Penthouse?” 

Louis finds the right pill bottle and downs two dry, ignoring the way Niall winces, “I don’t know, I could post it I guess. Or bring it. It’s not like I’m scared to go over there.” 

“No,” Niall agrees, nodding along, “Dating is the only thing that scares you. Well, that and going bald.” 

In the middle of bringing his cup to his mouth for a sip, Louis freezes then lowers it slowly, narrowing his eyes, “I am  _ not  _ afraid of dating. That’s not even a thing people are afraid of.”

Niall snorts, “Right. Because running in the other direction, everytime anyone so much as seems interested in you really screams ‘ready to mingle’.” 

Louis should have taken the opportunity to smother him to death when they were children, and he could have gotten away with it. “Just because you don’t understand what standards are, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to jump into bed with any Tom, Dick, or Harry that comes along.” 

The insult slides off Niall’s back like water from a duck and he tilts his head, smirk playing across his face, “Mate, just for clarification, you’re telling me Harry fucking Styles doesn’t meet your standards? Who’s left? Zeus?” 

Before Louis can snap at him about the dangers of glorifying celebrities, a knock sounds at the door. “Jesus,” he grumbles, “Have I won a popularity contest or something.” 

Niall rolls his eyes, “Not likely.” 

It earns him his second rude hand gesture of the day, and a ball of wrapping paper thrown at his head, all before noon. That’s a record even for Niall. 

Louis stomps over to the door, assuming he’ll find a salesperson or something. 

It’s not a salesperson. “How are you?” Harry drawls, voice like syrup. 

Louis’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. 

“Um, hi,” Louis leans forward a bit and peers into the hall, expecting to find it packed with a camera crew filming some type of prank show, rather than Harry Styles in soft joggers and a black hoodie, looking like he’s just a regular guy, “I’m alright, how are you?” 

“I’m well,” Harry responds, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His trainers squeak a little, Louis looks down and notices what he’s pretty sure is a hole in the side of the left one. “I forgot to send a card with the gift. When I realised, I tried to send Zayn back up, but he got snippy so I figured I’d come up and just say thank you in person.”

Louis looks back up and tilts his head, tapping at his lip in a considering fashion, “Zayn. Dark, brooding, supermodel looking bloke? Ready to attack at any given moment?” 

Harry cackles loudly, surprising Louis into a smile that he bites back instantly, “That’s fake. Well, the model thing is true, but the ready to attack part is fake. He’s a softie; he won’t even let me order fresh lobster when we go out ‘cause he hates to see it suffer.” 

Louis smiles a little bigger, and lets this one stay, leaning against the door jam, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Once we were in a hotel in America and the cable was out so we had to rent a movie and I picked Lilo and Stitch. You should have seen the way he cried when Lilo left-” 

“Harry the shirt was a lovely gift, but I can’t accept it,” Louis cuts him off, accidently just blurting it out. 

“Of course you can,” Harry objects, pouting like an overgrown toddler, “It’s rude to send gifts back.” 

“That’s what I told him,” Niall sing songs from the kitchen. 

Harry’s face lights up excitedly, he plants a gigantic palm flat on the door and pushes it open with a smile, “Irish!” 

Niall’s chair scrapes loudly across the kitchen floor, as he jumps up and bounds over to the door, “That’s me, well the name’s Niall actually. Good to see you mate, looking good!” 

Harry tilts his head with a bashful smile and a little shrug. He opens his mouth to answer but snaps it shut again when Louis interrupts. 

“If you two are quite finished with your little reunion tour here,” Louis huffs, looking between them with an annoyed expression, “Honestly, you’re practically strangers, why are you acting like you’re part of a boyband or something. And, that’s the second time you’ve called me rude in, like, 24 hours.” 

“I’m sure it’s not the second time you’ve  _ been _ rude in 24 hours,” Harry answers sourly. The nerve. “You haven’t even invited me in and I’m a guest.” 

Niall turns and looks at Louis, poking him in the shoulder, “Also, you just interrupted us. Incredibly rude.” 

He’s standing in his own home being lectured about manners from a man who’d tried to pull him within twenty seconds of meeting him, and another who regularly attempts to belch the entire alphabet. 

Unbelievable. 

“Come in then,” Louis grouses. He lets Niall hold the door and he walks back into the kitchen with the both of them following behind, “I’ll have you know I am a very polite person, a dream to be around in fact.” 

Niall hops up onto the counter and watches their exchange like it’s this week’s episode of Keeping up with the Kardashian’s. 

“Yeah, I’m sure your Mum says you’re the best lad in the world, her very favourite gossip column writer,” Harry’s tone is still light, but Louis freezes. The side of his face burns under Niall’s stare. “I should have kept that in mind when making such horrible statements about your character.” 

“So you know what I do, then.” 

If Harry notices Louis’s hesitance, he doesn’t let on. He strolls around the flat curiously, letting his long fingers drag over each surface he passes, “Of course I do. Google.” 

“Why would you Google me?” Louis flips the switch on the kettle and starts searching for a tea cup, mostly for something to do with his hands, “If you don’t want people thinking you’re a creepy vampire, the first step is not to stalk them.” 

Harry lets out a squeak, indignant, and spins around with one of Niall’s weird vases grasped tightly to his chest, “I wasn’t stalking you, I needed somewhere to send the gift, didn’t I?”

That brings them full circle. Louis sighs, and leans against the counter, shaking his head. 

“Harry-” 

“Do me a favor, Louis?” Harry’s voice is so smooth it has a way of rolling over Louis’ words, and cutting him off without making him bristle. Which is incredibly fucking annoying if he’s honest. 

“Yeah?” 

“Keep the shirt.” 

Years from now, Louis will look back on this moment and be able to blame his response on Harry’s incredibly unfair puppy dog eyes. He is most definitely some kind of supernatural creature. 

“Fine,” Louis sighs in defeat. 

Harry smiles brightly and puts the vase back in its place carefully, “Great. Well, I’ve got a shit ton of boring arse meetings today, so I’ve got to be going.” 

Louis blinks in surprise and pushes off from the counter to walk him to the door, but Harry waves him off, “No, I’ll see myself out.” 

And with a silly little salute to Niall, and a cheeky wink to Louis, he’s gone. 

Louis plops down at the kitchen table and stares down into his tea, trying to make sense of the whirlwind that is Harry Styles. 

Across the table, Niall munches happily on a piece of toast and watches him, “So, you’re sure you two aren’t dating?” 

Louis doesn’t dignify the question with a response. 


	2. Two

There's an upside and a downside to all London nightclubs. On one hand, unlike going to parties thrown in hotels, you’ve got to pay a ridiculous amount of money to get in, and then even more money to drink anything. On the other hand, the music is loud - rattle your bones, change your pulse loud - so conversation is just about impossible. And that? That’s definitely an upside. 

Louis is drinking an overpriced drink, nodding his head to the music, mostly unbothered, when someone large and warm presses up behind him. 

“Sorry mate, not really up for it,” Louis starts, turning around quickly with an apologetic look on his face. He jerks back a little when he sees his dance partner’s face. 

“Imagine my luck,” Harry drawls, pairing it with a sly smirk that makes Louis want to pinch his nipple until he cries, “Here I was, thinking tonight was a dud, and then from across the room I spot the best arse in London.” 

A tiny, miniscule, very small, almost nonexistent part of Louis preens at the compliment. The rest of him thinks Harry is a grade A arsehole. 

“And then you figured you’d just come over and rub your horse dick all over it?” Louis takes a gulp of his drink. It’s not nearly strong enough for the price, or the occasion. 

Harry tilts his head, his smile widening, “ You think I’ve got a horse dick?” 

Right. He’s definitely going to need another drink. “You know you’ve got a big dick,” Louis says, turning to signal to the bartender, “It’s not a compliment or anything, it’s just a fact.” 

“It’s a pretty complimentary fact,” Harry points out, stepping a little further into Louis’ space. Louis takes a step back. Not in retreat. Just because. 

The bartender appears with his drink and Louis takes it quickly, grateful for something to do with his hands, “I bet you’re good at making just about anything anyone says to you a compliment.” 

Something dark flickers across Harry’s face for just a breath before he covers it again with his little half smile. “I don’t need compliments actually. I’ve always been the type of person that doesn’t care what people think about me.” 

Louis shakes his head and takes another sip of his drink. Harry’s eyes track the motion. 

“You didn’t offer to buy me a drink,” he points out. 

Louis sputters a little, “Why would I do that?” he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Harry takes another step forward. Louis doesn’t retreat this time, mostly because his back is against the bar and he’s nowhere to go. 

“Isn’t that what people do?” 

Louis laughs, incredulous, “Are you actually asking me about normal human behavior, this has got to be a step in the right direction, vampire boy.” 

Harry laughs loudly and then covers his mouth quickly, looking around like anyone can hear him above the thrum of the baseline or like anyone even cares about anything other than themselves, “I’m sure you could teach me a lot.” 

Louis shrugs, telling himself he is completely unaffected by Harry’s proximity and the crisp smell of his cologne, “Well, as I am a human I do know certain things, yes. We can start with drinks. People buy other people drinks in places like this when they want to sleep with them.” 

Harry nods solemnly, playing along. The people around them are moving constantly, pushing and dancing. But they’re caught in their own private bubble. “I see, so you’re saying you’re not interested in sleeping with me?” 

“I’m neither confirming nor denying that,” Louis says, haughtily, “But, I don’t have to buy drinks to sleep with people. People buy drinks to try and sleep with  _ me _ .” 

In his first year of Uni, Louis had taken a public speaking course. One of the topics that had been covered was proper social distances; three feet away for a social situation, one foot away in a personal one, etc. Seeing as the toes of Harry’s scuffed up gold boots are rubbing up against Louis’ trainers, it’s a pretty safe assumption they didn’t teach that particular class back when Harry was still a human boy.

“I bet they do,” Harry says, his tone dropping about 100 levels to what is probably his bedroom voice. Not that Louis is going to think about that, “But you’ve already got a drink. What would a human do in this situation?” 

Harry’s mouth is pink again, probably due to the way he keeps it trapped between his teeth. Louis yanks his eyes away from his lips and casts a look around the room, making Harry wait for his response. When their eyes meet again, Louis finds humor dancing back at him in the green. “Well, I suppose they would have to try for polite conversation, chat me up a little, maybe.” 

“How about over dinner?” 

It takes Louis a second to realise that he’s asking him out, “What, now?” 

A girl to his right giggles loudly and topples over, knocking into him. Harry plants his hands on his waist to steady him and doesn’t move them away. It solidifies the bubble they’re in, cages Louis in, in a way that would usually make him feel trapped. But now he only feels safe. 

“Yes, now,” Harry says, so close now they’re just a breath apart, “Unless you’ve got a close, personal attachment to this establishment.” 

Cheeky. Louis thinks about telling him no. This little game they’re playing isn’t going to lead anywhere good, he’s sure of it. Harry stops him before he can decline the offer, cupping his face with one hand and rubbing his thumb along his jaw like he has the right to. 

“You’re the only thing that feels real in this room, in any room probably.” 

Louis’s stomach flips. The word falls out before Louis even gets a chance to think about it. “Okay.” 

Harry looks equally as surprised as Louis feels, “Yeah?” 

What the hell, in for a penny, “Yeah, but I get to pick the place.” 

Harry’s hand is gripping his, and he’s yanking him through the crowd before he even finishes the sentence. He holds on tight and lets himself be pulled, noting how the crowd once again parts for Harry - showing respect for their king of all things glitter and pompous. He slides his phone out of his pocket and shoots a quick text to Niall letting him know not to look for him before he heads home. 

The lad working the coat check nearly brains himself on the counter hopping up and scrambling to get Harry’s coat. Louis scowls at Harry when he takes it from him and slides it on.

“What is that?” 

Harry looks up from the buttons, confused, “What is what?” 

Louis takes his coat from the coat check, and waves a hand around in Harry’s direction, “That, that thing you’re putting on. What is that?” 

Harry cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed, “It’s mink.” 

Louis rolls his eyes, and shoves his hands into the pockets of his perfectly reasonable leather jacket, “You’d better be careful Styles, you stick that nose any further up in the air and the next time it rains you’ll drown.” 

Harry wraps his hand around Louis’s wrist and practically drags him through the door, pressing his 750 rings against his skin. Who even needs that much metal on their body at one time?   “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks for the warning.”  

Harry drops his hand to signal to the valet, when they get out into the cold night air, and Louis tells himself he doesn’t miss the warmth of his touch. He’s sure now that it will start getting awkward, just the two of them standing there. They’ve not got a single thing in common, probably, what in the world will they even talk about? This whole thing is a terrible idea really. 

Louis doesn’t have a chance to spiral any further down into his pit of self doubt, because a porsche comes hurtling up to the curb and a valet jumps out, throwing Harry the keys. 

Harry turns to face Louis full on, tossing his keys around in the palm of his hand, “You think you can squeeze all of that into the coupe?” 

Louis looks between the car and Harry, nonplussed, “All of what?” 

Harry’s smile turns devious, and Louis only has a second to glare at him suspiciously, before he starts humming. 

Louis’ jaw drops, “Are you humming ‘baby got back’,” he demands. And then he gets it, “Are you talking about my arse?! Are you asking me if I can fit my  _ arse  _ in your car?” 

Harry drops his smile and adopts an innocent look. There’s a valet behind him who’s taking tiny little side steps, peering around them as subtly as possible, trying to get a look at Louis’ bum. Louis snatches the keys out of Harrys hand and tosses them to the valet, who only just looks up in time to catch them. 

“Just for that, we’re walking, Rockstar,” Louis turns and walks away, fighting back a smile when he hears Harry running behind to catch up. 

 

It’s fucking freezing out, but having his balls try and crawl back up into his body in search of warmth is still better than being inside some cramped posh restaurant, with waiters that wear bow ties. Which is exactly the type of establishment Louis is sure Harry would have picked if he had a say. 

They’re walking aimlessly, strolling in the general direction of Louis’ flat, but turning and ambling down side streets whenever the mood strikes them. Louis’ idea to get chips was genius of course, but he hadn’t known that Harry was actually a bottomless pit who would devour his own and then start stealing Louis’. 

Their fingers graze each other as Harry steals another, and Louis figures it's not actually a big deal. Sharing is caring and all that. 

“So you’ve been here with Niall for a year,” Harry confirms, watching Louis intently in that creepy vampire stare way he does, “You must miss home.” 

Louis flips his collar up to defend his neck against the wind whipping around the buildings, “Yeah, my Mum is in a right state actually. I’m going to visit next month.” 

“So is this you living the dream, then?” Harry takes another chip and speaks around it. Not a drop of manners in his entire body, “Did you grow up wanting to write about which celebrities use which toilet paper?” 

Louis shoves him toward the street and fights back a smile at the squeaking noise Harry makes, while he pinwheels his arms in an effort to stay upright. “No, you prat. Writing for rags happens to be as easy as sin, and they’ll hire just about anyone. I landed the interview and I needed the money, so here we are.” 

Harry’s back to staring at him, and Louis can practically hear the gears turning in his head. “So?” 

Louis glances at the street sign in front of them and decides to go left even though he’s got no clue where it will take them. It seems like that kind of night, “So, what?” 

“So, are you going to tell me what you  _ did _ dream of becoming as a kid?” Harry seems to have no qualms following Louis around the city blindly, maybe because he’s so intent on digging around in Louis’ personal business. 

Louis glances at him from the corner of his eye and shrugs, “I was dead set on being a traffic light for a while there, ‘till Mum sat me down and explained the difficulties involved with that plan.” 

Harry honks out a terribly loud laugh at that and Louis smiles, pleased, and a bit proud of himself, “But really, when I got over wanting to be an inanimate object, I wanted to become a writer. You know make it big and all that. Novels of course, not toilet paper editorials.” 

Harry nods along, seemingly engrossed, “What happened?” 

Louis stops walking and turns to him, narrowing his eyes, “Well nothing’s happened yet, obviously. I’ve not made it yet is all. It’s not like I’m 97 years old, Harold. Give a bloke a minute.” 

Harry’s eyes twinkle with mischief, “I’d give you every minute of every day, if you asked.” 

The blind confidence behind his words, and the way his cheek dimples, does something to Louis’ chest, something he’s not ready to think about just yet.

“It’s kind of cold, Rockstar. What do you say we call it a night?” Louis goes for nonchalance and falls short by a mile, but Harry doesn’t seem to notice. At the very least he doesn’t call him out on it. 

“Yeah, lets get you home,” Harry agrees easily. They start walking again and get about two steps before Harry speaks up again, “Favorite flower?”

Louis raises a brow, “I’m sorry?”

“What’s your favorite flower?” Harry asks again with a little shrug. He gnaws at his lip a little and then adds, “Things like that are important to know. They make up what a person is. Favorite flower, favorite colour, shower or bath.” 

Harry is, by far and away, the strangest person Louis has ever come across. He’s like a mix between his Nan, Mick Jagger, and a five year old child. For some reason, it’s not all that unpleasant. 

Louis thinks about it for a minute, in silence. While Harry just plods along next to him without even a drop of impatience, “Okay, but I’ve got a question first. We’ll trade.” 

He feels Harry tense a little next to him and thinks he’s going to refuse, but a second later he shrugs. “Okay, shoot.” 

“Why are you so -” Louis struggles a bit to find the right word and waves his hand around in the air between them, “I wouldn’t say normal, but not a Rockstar, with Niall and I. You’re different with us than you were, with that girl I found you with, the first time we met.” 

Harry’s shoulder’s relax, whatever question he’d been worried about, that obviously hadn’t been it. He looks over at Louis, who keeps his eyes straight ahead, but listens intently, and shrugs again, “You don’t treat me like they do, you treat me like Harry. Zayn’s that way too, he doesn’t act like I’ll start chucking things around the flat if he refuses to get me ice cream at three in the morning. I guess I’m just comfortable with you lads.” 

Louis hadn’t expected that response, not that he’s ever got a clue what’s going to come out of Harry’s mouth, and he tries to ignore the little fissure of pleasure that comes with Harry’s admission. “Alright then, fair enough. Sunflowers.” 

Harry pauses, a bit confused and then a look of understanding comes over his face. He seems to take his answer very seriously, mulling it over for a couple seconds with a facial expression akin to a muppet, before asking another question. And another. All the way back to Louis’ building, and Louis is out of facts to give. 

“I have a confession,” Harry says softly as soon as they get to Louis’s flat, standing close enough to Louis that his warm breath ghosts over his cheeks. The man has not one clue about personal space. 

Louis leans back against the door and quirks a brow, “Go ahead then, you’ve got me on pins and needles.” 

Harry smiles at Louis’ dry tone, and his dimples appear right in the middle of his pink, wind abused cheeks. “Yeah, I’ve been doing some reading on human practices. I like to try and be up and up on the times, you know.” 

Louis fights back a smile. If anyone ever overhears this little charade they’ll probably both end up in a tabloid. ‘Harry Styles and new beau, have they both suffered brain damage?’ 

“And what did your books tell you?” Louis shifts his jumper a bit and watches Harry get distracted by the appearance of his collarbones, “Surely, they’ve got a chapter about staring problems, maybe you should give it another read through.” 

Harry’s eyes snap up quickly but Louis doesn’t see an ounce of shame in them. “They told me that it’s customary in human dating practices for the first date to end with a kiss.” 

Louis nods, putting on his most solemn expression, “That is often true. Anything else?” 

Harry shifts forward a little, towering over Louis somehow despite the fact that he’s not all that big himself, “It’s also customary - and this is just what the books say of course- it’s also customary for people to wait until the third date to sleep with someone.” 

“These are all very interesting facts, Harold,” Louis says innocently, blinking up at him from under his lashes, “But, I’m afraid I’ve no idea how they pertain to me.” 

“Well, the thing is, I’ve come to a conclusion,” Harry says with a tap to his forehead, like Louis needs to be reminded that’s where he keeps his brain, “I think I’ve been shortchanged.”

Louis’ eyebrows shoot up dramatically, “A terrible injustice to say the least. Tell me more, Rockstar, so that we can get to the bottom of this and right this terrible wrong.”

Harry leans in even further still, because apparently there’s not a single boundary that applies to him, and braces his forearm on the wall above Louis’ head. With the other, he holds up one finger between them, poised to count.

“Our first date, at the hotel, I was terribly charming and gentleman like, but was given no kiss,” Harry pauses to allow for interruption, eyeing Louis expectancy. Louis remains silent and urges him on with a nod of his head.

“Our second date, you had to be bullied into even allowing me inside your home and that, as you well know, ended with no kiss. So, now here we are,” Harry sweeps his arm around grandly gesturing to the hallway, “On our third date, and I’m sincerely worried I’ll be going home without a kiss again. It’s not right.”

Louis is going to explain why both of those instances were not dates. Actually, what he’s going to do is roll his eyes at the whole speech because it’s such an obvious and childish chat up attempt, he can’t even be bothered.

“Why don’t you collect on your debt?” Is what he says instead.

Harry’s against him in an instant, connecting every part of their bodies and pressing him into the door firmly. Just a second ago, Louis had been cold, but now the heat radiating from Harry’s body is practically burning him.

Leaning down slightly, he smirks, “Gladly.” 

Harry kisses like he talks, slow and deep. His lips are a little chapped and the roughness against Louis’ mouth feels right somehow, makes it feel real. It’s a whole body production; his hips press forward into Louis’, holding him in place and offering him more all at once. His hands slide along Louis’ jaw and up into his hair, gripping firmly as he tilts Louis’ chin and swipes his tongue along his bottom lip. 

Louis’ good for nothing, treacherous body melts like chocolate on a hot day, and he leans into the door with all his weight. 

Harry follows, pressing their mouths together firmly until Louis is breathless, and his heart is slamming against his chest. It seems that Harry has come to take, and fuck if Louis isn’t thinking about giving it all away. 

Somewhere between one breath and the next, Louis’ brain shuts off, and it doesn’t come back online until he realises Harry is whispering something against his lips. 

“Wha- What?” Louis blinks, trying to clear his blurry vision and make sense of his surroundings again.

Harry pulls back and smiles gently. He leaves his hands in Louis’s hair and his fingers play gently against his scalp, “I said, ‘Do you have your keys’?” 

For a moment, Louis can’t even remember what keys are, nevermind if he’s got them in his possession. Then Harry tugs at his hair, just a bit of pressure, and Louis gets a hold of himself. 

He slides them out of his pocket and jingles them between them, forcing Harry to take a step back and give him a little space. He goes easily, soft smile still playing on his face. Louis takes a little breath, “I do have them, although it would be alright if I didn’t. I’m sure there’s a nosy Irishman just inside waiting to hear all about my night.” 

Harry chuckles while Louis unlocks the door with slightly less than steady hands. With the door ajar, Louis pauses and looks back over his shoulder, “Thanks for the chips, Rockstar.” 

“Thanks for the company, Sunshine,” Harry tips his imaginary hat at him before turning and sauntering down the hall. 

Louis closes the door and leans against it, taking a deep breath. It was just a kiss, nothing special, certainly nothing to write home about. It’s just been a while is all. It happens to everyone, people go through droughts every once in a while. That’s all that was; it had been too long since he’d been kissed and his body overreacted. 

He pushes off the door and heads to his bed, dispelling all thoughts of the night from his mind. He wasn’t going to spend half the night in bed analysing their interaction, or thinking about Harry’s lips pressed against his own. Or Harry’s hands in his hair. Absolutely not. 

After all, it was just a kiss. 

 

A tingly sort of awareness rouses Louis from his sleep. He blinks his eyes open and nearly has a heart attack when he realises he’s staring directly into a very blue,  _ very close _ , set of eyes. 

With a gasp, he scrambles backwards up the bed, “What the fuck, Niall?!” 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, banana in hand, and an unconcerned look on his face, Niall blinks at him, “ Are you ready to start being honest with me, Louis?”

Smacking the bedside table, Louis searches for his glasses and shoves them on, blinking as the rest of the room comes into focus, “Honest about what, you fucking lunatic?” 

“About you and Harry Styles dating, ” Niall takes a bite of his banana and nudges his head towards the bedroom door. 

Louis looks towards the door and, seeing nothing, looks back to Niall with a groan, “What are you talking about?” 

“Go see,” Niall says around a mouthful, “In the living room, believe me you won’t miss it.” 

Louis kicks off the duvet irritably and climbs out of bed. Stomping out of the room, he pauses to smack the banana out of Niall’s hand, and onto the floor. 

The floor is freezing cold in the hallway, but he doesn’t feel like going back for socks, so he speeds up and his stomping turns more into a tip toe kind of run. The stitled little run turns into a complete frozen stop, when Louis comes to the end of the hall and sees exactly what Niall was talking about. 

The living room is covered in sunflowers. Every surface - the coffee table, a few of the shelves of the entertainment system, the floor - is adorned with bouquets of sunflowers. It’s the most beautiful and confusing thing Louis has ever seen. 

A spot of yellow to his left catches his eye and Louis turns, dropping his jaw. There’s more. The dining room table, the tiny kitchen table, the counters - sunflowers, sunflowers, sunflowers. 

Niall joins him at the end of the hall. Leaning against the wall, he pulls out a small card from the back of his jeans and hands it to Louis, smirking.

Louis snatches it away and reads it quickly, feeling his face heat. 

_ Good morning, Sunshine. Dinner at 8?  _

Louis looks up from the card and stares around the room again. After a couple minutes during which Louis’ brain valiantly tries to sort through what is going on, he turns and heads into his room in search of his phone. 

Finding it under the bed, tossed aside when he’d gotten out of bed most likely, he opens up a new text and punches in the number typed below the greeting on the card. 

_ Fine. But no fucking bow ties.  _

Almost immediately his phone dings with a response. Louis rolls his eyes at the string of ridiculous emojis Harry sends back, and tosses his phone down on the bed. With a groan he heads back into the kitchen, flipping Niall the bird in the hallway, and flips on the kettle. 

As the water boils rapidly, Louis stares around at the flower shop that is now his flat and wonders just exactly what he’s gotten himself into. 


	3. Three

Before Louis has the chance to process it, they settle into a strange but (although he’d rather not admit it aloud) pleasant routine. They go out together several times a week, always to some hidden gem or dive bar, anywhere there’s no bow ties and ridiculous rules, really. They talk the entire night, never finding themselves in an awkward lull, much to Louis’ amazement. And then the night ends, just like the first date, in a sweltering, mind melting snog. Louis never lets it go further than that, not even letting Harry in the flat -  _ especially _ not letting Harry in the flat. He’s only got so much self control and that would be pushing it. 

Niall would call it cowardice if he was allowed to comment, Louis knows. But, it’s self preservation really. Sure, Harry’s interested now, but he’s a millionaire playboy, an actual fucking rockstar. It’s only a matter of time before he picks up anchor and sets sail again, in search of the next person to hold his interest. It doesn’t make Harry a bad person, Louis doesn’t judge him for it, or think less of him. The world is really and truly Harry’s oyster.

Despite his pragmatism though, every time Louis turns Harry away from the door, he thinks it will be the last. But, the next morning always dawns with a new gesture of courting, on varying levels of ridiculous and opulent. Sometimes it’s sunflowers like the first time, covering every surface, one time the idiot had filled his entire garden with real life fucking butterflies, which, while absolutely insane, was pretty bloody fantastic if Louis is honest. 

So, somewhere around the third week of dating, Louis decides to take a deep breath and just let it happen. Their relationship will most definitely end in heartbreak and ruin, but it is very likely that the ride along the path to destruction will be worth it. 

Besides, he’s a very courageous man. Niall be damned. 

“Do you think I need a trim?” Louis asks distractedly, carding his fingers through his fringe. He tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes at his reflection, “Maybe I should go for a whole new style altogether.” 

Niall looks up from the middle of Louis’ bed - cross legged and strumming gently at his guitar - and makes a contemplative sort of face, “Maybe.” 

“Maybe what,” Louis retorts huffily, slightly huffily, just a hint of huff really, “Maybe get a trim or maybe change the style?” 

Niall strums pointedly and rolls his eyes, “How about option C - you get laid and stop sniping at me about everything.” 

If Louis’ cheeks heat, it’s due to the way Niall keeps the flat as hot as the Sahara desert and nothing else. “I’m not sniping at you. You’re overly sensitive,” He turns back to the mirror, having decided that the usual style will have to do, and starts applying styling wax to his fringe, “Besides that’s the plan anyway, so.” 

Niall’s strumming comes to an abrupt halt and he looks up - much more interested, “Oh is it? Is that why you’re fussing and primping like a bird before her very first date?” 

From the top of the dresser, Louis grabs a partially full water bottle and lobs it over his shoulder in the general direction of the bed. He smiles smugly at Niall’s responding grunt, that meant his aim had held true, “Fuck off.” 

Niall mumbles something that sounds a lot like “fucking arsehole” under his breath, and a second later the sounds of his gentle strumming float through the room again. It’s a nice distraction; the calming melody helps soothe the butterflies that have decided to take up residence in Louis’ stomach. It’s all silly really, he’s been on a dozen dates with Harry by now. There’s no real reason for him to feel nervous about this one, well, except the fact that he’s going into this one with a goal set in mind. 

And goals can be missed. The butterflies take flight with renewed vigour. “I was thinking maybe my red shirt, the one that swoops in the front. You know the one?” 

Niall wrinkles his nose, “You always wear that one to pull, bit cliche or something isn’t it.” 

Frowning slightly, Louis turns to his wardrobe to survey his options, “Maybe it’s my lucky shirt,” he argues feebly. 

Niall snorts rudely, “Listen, mate. I hate to break it to you, but for a lucky shirt it didn’t actually get you a whole lot of-” 

Louis spins around, presenting a shirt on a hanger and a sly smile, that effectively cuts off the rest of Niall’s sentence. His jaw snaps shut and his eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. 

It takes him a second, but then his smile matches Louis’ and he tilts his head in a nod of agreement, “Yup, that ought to do it.”

 

 

Louis steps off the lift and into the Penthouse ten minutes behind schedule. It’s just enough to be deemed fashionably late, but that’s not something he can be arsed to care about. He’d paced nervously around his room for just a few minutes too long while getting ready, is the problem, but at least he’d never have to admit that out loud. 

The room smells of lemon and vanilla, the product of a candle burning on the table in the foyer. The lights are low; Harry’s probably been in his room since before the lights needed to be turned on, so the candle on the table and a few more in the next room are the only source of light besides the city lights, twinkling through the windows. A mixture of Shania Twain’s voice and Harry’s lower tone drifts through flat and Louis’ butterflies evaporate. This is Harry, sweet, strange Harry. Certainly nothing to be worried about. 

The bedroom is separated from the lift by the sitting area and the hall. Louis makes his way towards the direction of the music, but stops short when a glint of rainbow light plays across his cufflink, and catches his eye. He glances around the room for the source, then looks up, and gapes. 

Harry’s put in a crystal chandelier. 

Louis watches, transfixed, as light from the candles bounces off the droplet shaped crystals, and casts rainbow reflections about the room. A sharp intake of breath startles Louis from his staring and he looks around the room quickly. 

Harry is standing in the entrance to the hall, frozen in the act of buttoning his shirt sleeve. The light from his room casts a sort of warm glow around him and shadows his face, hiding his expression. 

“I wasn’t sure this place could get anymore over the top,” Louis says, keeping his voice light, despite the fact that Harry’s frozen form is sending delicious licks of anticipation up his spine, “I never should have doubted you.” 

Harry tilts his head to the side, raking his eyes over Louis’ form. He walks across the room slowly, prowling really. He doesn’t stop until they’re toe to toe. 

Louis waits for a response, watching his expression, but none comes for several long seconds. He swallows, “Cat got your tongue, Harold?” 

He smiles, a small curve of his lips to the side, and reaches out to grasp Louis’ arm. Gently, he rubs the sleeve between his fingers, watching the material move, “You wore the Versace.” 

His eyes meet Louis’ and the raw hunger he sees there nearly takes Louis’ breath away. “It’s a good shirt.” 

The room feels about a hundred degrees hotter than just a moment before, Louis is sure he’s melting. But, Harry looks as calm as ever. He deftly removes one cufflink, tossing it onto the coffee table, and nods, “It is. Very finely made. Can I kiss you?” 

Louis’ body sways toward Harry of its own accord, “Always,” he whispers, suddenly not able to speak above the hushed tone. 

Harry looks up from the other cufflink, searching Louis’ face, “Careful,” the cufflink joins its twin on the table, and Harry slowly pulls at the bottom most button on the shirt, “‘Always’ goes hand and hand with ‘forever’.” 

Louis’ heart stutters in his chest, but before he can respond, Harry’s got one hand wrapped around the back of his neck, pulling him in close. They’ve kissed every way possible, Louis thinks. They’ve had slow, soft kisses, while the clouds over London splatter the pavement with fat raindrops. They’ve had fast, biting, kisses, after bickering and snapping at each other. They’ve had quick, preoccupied, goodbye kisses; long, promising, hello kisses. But this kiss is completely different; with every press of their lips Louis can feel the need coiling through Harry. Need for Louis, need Louis had put there. 

With that thought, Louis pulls away, gasping for breath. He slides his fingers through the soft hair at the nape of Harry’s neck and tilts his head down, pressing their foreheads together and murmuring against Harry’s mouth, “Fuck me.” 

Harry shudders and his grip on the back of Louis’ neck tightens, his other hand is still slowly working the rest of Louis’ buttons open. He doesn’t pull away as he answers, “Yeah? You sure you don’t want that the other way around?” 

Louis laughs quietly and leans back to look Harry in the eye, smiling, “I do excel at topping, which I’m sure you’re implying, you slag. But, I want to feel you, been thinking about it. Close to me, inside me, yeah?” 

A glint of light from the candles reflects in Harry’s dark eyes and Louis’ knees threaten to buckle. Harry’s gotten all the buttons undone, the amazing multitasker that he is, and his eyes drag down Louis’ exposed torso as he nods, “I think I can handle that.” 

Louis smirks, can’t help but be a little smug at the glazed look in Harry’s eyes, “Tonight, you think, or were you planning on standing here waiting ‘til Tuesday?” 

Harry’s mouth quirks up in a crooked little half smile that Louis has come to recognise as part exasperated and part fond. He slides the palms of this hands under Louis’ shirt, along the line of his shoulders, and the material falls to the floor with a whisper of silk. 

“Jesus,” Harry whispers, taking in Louis’ exposed skin, “Look at you.” 

Louis swallows, “Up to scratch?”

Harry makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a growl, “You’re fucking breathtaking.” 

He takes hold of Louis’ jaw between his thumb and forefinger and turns his head sharply, just roughly enough to have Louis’ toes curling, and starts a line of kisses down his neck. This won’t do, Louis has to get back at least an ounce of control over this situation. 

“You never-” Louis’ voice cracks when of the the kisses turns to a bite on his shoulder, making his dick jump in his pants, “I asked you a question.” 

“Did ya,” Harry says, mouth at Louis’ ear, his breath hot where his teeth start nibbling at the lobe, “Must have missed it. I am a bit distracted.” 

“I asked you if you planned on fucking me tonight, or if you’re putting it off for some day next week.” 

Harry’s right hand slides down Louis’ back and plants itself in the dip just above his arse. “It was Tuesday actually,” Harry drags Louis flush against his body and grinds his hips sinfully, just once, “I’ve got to say, now that fucking you is on the table, I think I’d like an appointment for every day. If you can squeeze me in.” 

Louis grabs a handful of curls and yanks, bringing Harry’s eyes up, “I can’t believe I’m going to let you fuck me after that. You’re the only person in the world who can think up horrible puns, while half the brain in his body is in his dick.” 

“But you are,” Harry sing songs quietly, mouth moving against Louis’ in more of a smile than a kiss, “You are going to let me fuck you, and it’s going to be amazing.” 

Louis’ dick jumps again, “A man of many words and little action, I see.” 

Suddenly, so suddenly Louis lets out a surprised yelp, Louis’ legs are no longer under him, but wrapped around Harry’s waist. He digs his fingers into Harry’s shoulders to steady himself and gapes at him, “You’re a fucking caveman.” 

Harry winks, the cocky little shit, and hitches Louis up a little higher, “Wait ‘till you see what I can do with my club.” 

Louis laughs in spite of himself. His thighs tense as Harry starts confidently striding towards the bedroom. He’s seen Harry very nearly break his neck tripping over air, on a completely flat surface; he’s got valid concerns here. But, Harry doesn’t falter once. 

Until Louis starts sucking a love bite at the point just below his jaw. Harry stumbles, and freezes, “Keep it up and you’ll be full of dick with your back pressed against this wall.” 

Louis tilts his head to whisper directly in Harry’s ear, voice rough, “Promises, promises.” 

With a little huff of laughter, Harry starts striding towards the bedroom again, valiantly ignoring Louis’ quest to color his entire neck with love bites, and only stopping when his knees hit the bed. He drops Louis down unceremoniously then rights himself, rolling his shoulders back. He keeps his eyes pinned on Louis while he grapples with his belt. 

“Take off your trousers,” he commands roughly, nudging his chin towards Louis’ lower half. 

Louis swallows the rush of saliva that crops up in reaction to Harry’s tone, “Thought you’d want to do that for me, being that you’re such a gentleman and all.” 

Harry yanks his belt through the loop and tosses it, the metal buckle clunks loudly on the floor. “Could do,” he says in the same rough tone, nodding slowly, “But I’m not feeling very gentle at the moment. They probably wouldn’t survive the ordeal, which would be a shame. Your arse looks amazing in them.” 

Louis preens and reaches down to unzip his trousers, wiggling his hips around flirtatiously and batting his eyelashes, “My arse looks amazing in everything.” 

“No truer words, Love,” Harry agrees, yanking down his own trousers, and kicking them off. The way his dick tents his black briefs is delicious. 

And distracting. 

“Thought I told you to take those off,” Harry says with a smug smile, “Who’s procrastinating now?” 

“Can’t a bloke admire the art?” Louis lifts his hips up off the bed, and yanks at his trousers, trying to wiggle them down. 

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up, “Flattery? You really do want to be fucked, huh?” 

Louis freezes, trousers mid-thigh and narrows his eyes, “If you would listen to everything I’ve been saying -” 

His sentence is effectively cut short when Harry reaches down, grabs the ankles of his trousers, and yanks, pulling him halfway down the bed. 

Sporting just his pants, and a very hard dick, Louis flips over and makes to scramble up the bed. Harry follows him, and, with one freakishly large hand to the middle of his back, and his hips pressed firmly to Louis’ arse, pins him down. 

Louis ruts down against the mattress, overwhelmed, and whimpers a little. 

Harry chuckles darkly, breath warm against his ear, “Starting without me?” 

“Don’t have all night,” Louis breathes, rocking back against Harry’s dick. It feels huge like this, only two flimsy layers of cloth separating them.

Harry presses a kiss to Louis’ spine, “Yes we do.” 

Louis shivers in anticipation. Harry continues his trail of kisses down his back, keeping one hand in the middle of Louis’ back and the other firmly wrapped around his hip. Louis can’t do much more than rock slightly against the mattress, and he’s going mad with need by the time Harry’s mouth finds its way to the elastic band of his pants. 

“Harry. Haz. Harry,” Louis pleads, canting his hips up desperately as soon as Harry releases him to hook his fingers around the tops of his pants and slide them down and off. He should feel vulnerable, probably, naked and spread out in front of Harry this way. But, he only feels ready. Really fucking ready. “You’re torturing me, you bastard.” 

Harry makes a distracted noise in acknowledgment. Louis looks at him over his shoulder, blinking back the sweat that’s trying to drip into his eyes. Harry’s leaning back on his knees, kneading Louis’ arse roughly, eyes dark and expression hungry. Louis’ heart threatens to stop when Harry looks up and holds his gaze.

“I can’t believe I get to do this,” Harry whispers, and then slides his hands up around to Louis’ hips, yanking him up on to his knees.

Louis scrambles for balance in the new position, he opens his mouth to make a snide remark, but Harry’s tongue, warm and wet, swipes over his rim and erases every word that Louis has ever learned from his brain. 

Fingers gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles turn white, Louis drops his forehead to the mattress with a groan, “Jesus Christ.” 

Harry moans and his hands tighten against Louis , pulling him closer, burying his face. He licks at him with intent, circling his rim and lapping at him urgently. Louis can feel himself loosening, his body, his arse, his fucking mind, it all feels ready to just open up and take whatever Harry offers him. 

Harry nips at his rim and Louis shoves his hips back against him, nearly out of his mind with pleasure, “Fuck. Harry, now, please.”

It’s a command, despite the breathy way it’s delivered. Louis wants to come on Harry’s dick, wants them to come together and preferably some time before next week. But, Harry must not care, because he doesn’t stop. He hauls Louis up higher, almost taking his knees off the bed altogether, and licks deeper, getting him soaking. 

It’s amazing and intense. More intense than any other time Louis has done this. Harry’s after him like a starving man, all low growls and deep probing licks. For a few long moments, Louis lets his brain shut off, lets himself float in a sea of sensation, but then Harry trails a finger down the crease of his ass and the desire to get fucked slams back to the forefront of his brain. 

“Have you ever spoken to a professional about your oral fixation issue,” Louis says casually. Well, as casually as one can with a tongue in one’s arse. 

Harry laughs, warm breath huffing against Louis’ too sensitive skin. He sits back on his knees but keeps his hands kneading Louis’ arse. “I don’t have an oral fixation issue,” he says slowly, voice low and rough, “I’ve got a  _ you _ fixation issue.”

“What about lube, do you have lube?” Louis snaps, patience all but gone. 

The bed shifts a little as Harry shuffles off the bed with an unintelligible, mumbled response. Louis breathes heavily, the side of his face still pressed into the soft blankets, as he watches Harry rifle through the side table. He finds the lube and a condom, dangles them between his fingers in Louis’ face, triumphant. 

“Very good, Harold,” Louis says, rolling his eyes to try and hide the fond. It maybe doesn’t work so well, “Can we get the show on the road, here?” 

Harry keeps his smile soft, but his nostrils flare, like he’s just on the edge of control. It’s an idea that makes Louis’ toes curl. 

“Yeah,” Harry reaches out and trails a finger down Louis’ jaw, “How do you want it?” 

Louis moans and arches his back, spreading his knees a bit further apart. “This, like this yeah,” he says, biting his lip when Harry squeezes the base of his own dick, “You’re annoyingly big, it’ll be easiest like this.” 

Harry shudders, a full body affair that Louis’ cock mirrors with a twitch. He only nods in response, his jaw ticking. Climbing back on the bed, he positions himself behind Louis again, and lets out a ragged breath, “You have no idea how amazing you look.” 

“Show me,” Louis says, swaying his arse unabashedly. 

“Jesus,” Harry groans, and rubs his thumb over Louis’ hole gently, snicking open the lube bottle with the other hand, “Gonna get you all wet.” 

Louis leans back into the touch and fists the sheets, “Yeah, give me your fingers, Haz.” 

“I am,” Harry confirms gruffly. But, he doesn’t, he uses his thumb to pull at Louis’ rim, opening him up, and dribbles the cool lube all over him. 

“Fuck,” Louis says, surprised by the sudden sensation, and arches his back even further. His cock jumps against his belly, trapped against the bed, dribbling precome, “Come  _ on _ , Harry.” 

Harry hums in acknowledgment and leans down, pressing a kiss to Louis’ spine. There’s a pause, Harry adding lube to his fingers, and then he’s pressing in. He uses two, his forefinger and middle, right off the bat like he knows Louis wants to feel the stretch. He probably does know, the arsehole. 

“Oh, thank God,” Louis whines, rocking back against Harry’s fingers, “Open me up, come on. Do it right.”

“You’re awfully bossy for someone getting exactly what he fucking asked for,” Harry admonishes, but there’s a laugh in his tone. He turns his hand just so, and pushes deeper, then up. Louis sees stars and probably announces that, if the words he’s blabbering are English. Harry growls lowly, “All in the wrist, isn’t it, Baby?” 

Louis nods against the mattress, head bobbing a mile a minute, “Yeah, yes. Fuck Harry, right  _ there _ .” 

“Here?” Harry asks playfully, following it up with such a firm press of his fingers to Louis’ prostate, he nearly sends him flying off the bed. 

Louis gasps for air and cants his hips back. This is it, this is how he’s going to go - he’s going to be finger fucked to death. Death by prostate. 

Harry snorts, “I don’t think that’s a thing.” 

Louis hadn’t even realised he’d been talking out loud, but he doesn’t really care. He only cares about Harry’s thick fingers pushing deep, and spreading, pulling against his rim. This is all he wants for the rest of his life, this bed, in this room, with this man’s fingers in him. 

Harry ruins the entire situation by gently pulling his fingers out. 

“No, just getting the condom on,” Harry says, when Louis grumbles and smacks his hand against the bed, “One second, Love.” 

Louis plans on giving exactly one second before he smacks him upside the head, but he needn’t have worried, because Harry’s already got the condom taken care of, and in the space between one breath and the next, he’s rubbing the head of his dick against Louis’ rim, testing the give. He must be dying to fuck into him, but Louis guesses he’s worried it will hurt. He’s trying to be patient. 

“I can take it,” Louis says. His thighs shake, partly from exertion, partly from sheer anticipation, “Been begging for it, haven’t I? Don’t make me go out and find someone-” 

Harry cuts off the rest of his sentence by lining his dick up properly, gripping Louis’ hip tightly, and pushing in. It takes forever and no time at all for him to fill Louis to the hilt. It burns a little, a dick up the arse tends to, but it’s good too. Getting better with each passing second actually. 

“You feel amazing,” Harry tells him, breathing heavily. He sounds strained, probably from the restrain it’s taking not to plow Louis’ arse, “Like fucking heaven.” 

He’s running his hands over Louis’ back, sliding them over his hips, and starting the circuit back again. It helps him relax, helps him open up and push back against the tiny rocking movements of Harry’s hips. 

“Move,” Louis urges, his hands sliding all over the soft sheets, “I’m alright, you won’t hurt me.” 

With a groan, Harry does as he’s told, pulling almost all the way out, and slamming back in. All his self restraint seems to disappear as he sets up a brutal pace sending the headboard slamming into wall. 

“No, never hurt you, Baby,” Harry gasps. He sounds half out of it, in a sex daze. Louis can relate. 

“I know,” Louis says, rocking back and meeting Harry’s thrusts. Keening when Harry’s dick slams into his prostate just so, “God, I know.” 

Harry groans again and snaps his hips forward roughly, his dick jabs his prostate again, like he can’t help but hit it over and over. Louis’ eyes fall shut and he doesn’t bother trying to get them open again. He’s never been one to like it rough, never liked it fast and hard, but Harry feels so amazing, there’s no way he’s going to last through more than five minutes of this treatment before he’s coming. 

And then Harry leans forward and slips his hand between Louis and the bed, fisting Louis’ dick with a quick squeeze. 

“Fuck,” Louis gasps, rutting forward into Harry’s fist and pushing back onto his dick, “I’m gonna come. Harry! I’m gonna come.” 

Harry thrusts lose their rhythm and he drops forward onto one forearm, slamming into Louis with all he has. He tilts his head so his mouth is level with Louis’ ear and gives it a quick nip before whispering darkly, “Let go for me, Love.” 

Louis has a second to think that he’s probably been ruined for all other sex for the rest of his life, before he’s coming so hard he nearly blacks out. His entire body trembles as he gasps for air, coming for what feels like hours. 

He can’t be sure, because Harry’s dicked him half to death, but he must clench around Harry like a vice because Harry’s gasping out “fuck, fuck, fuck,” and then shoving in deep one more time before coming. 

Harry drops his weight on him with a loud of huff and Louis allows it, more amicable than usual due to the Earth shattering orgasm. They lay there for a while, Louis in a cooling puddle of his own come, and Harry having what sounds dangerously like an asthma attack. But, he’s not struggling, or even moving for that matter, so Louis figures he’s probably fine. 

When the wet, sticky mess under him starts to feel more gross than afterglow like, he nudges Harry until he rolls off with a low groan. Louis flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling, body spent. “God.” 

Harry turns slowly, and Louis can tell he’s got a cheesy smile on without having to look at him, “You can just call me Harry.” 

Louis almost doesn’t have it in him to wack him in the face with a pillow. 

Almost. 

“You’re an absolute menace,” Harry growls, trying to wrestle the pillow away from him, “A fucking menace.”

Louis cackles and swings his leg up and over Harry’s hip, straddling him and trying to squish his face with the pillow. They’re a mess, there’s come and sweat all over them, but neither of them care. 

Harry manages to get Louis’ arms pinned to his sides and he pulls him closer to his chest. They breathe heavily, grinning like lunatics. 

They fall asleep like that, a jumbled mess of limbs, slick and disgusting, and perfectly content. 


	4. Four

The thing about writing is that sometimes the words don’t want to come, no matter what you do. Beg, plead, make live sacrifices to the Gods of ink and parchment, nothing will work. 

But, other times, it’s like an unstoppable force. Words flow in streams of consciousness, heavy and constant, with no regard for the time of night or any obligations you might be missing. With no thought for petty things like sleeping and eating. It’s like the days of writing trash for work make his soul starved for real writing - for real expression. Once his hands touch the keys of his old laptop, with the intention of getting his real thoughts out, his mind takes over and he’s just along for the ride. 

Louis is on the tail end of one such episode - three hours into a writer’s bender, with bleary eyes and a seriously dry mouth, when his phone starts buzzing. 

He answers it without looking, pulling his glasses off and rubbing at his eyes, “ ‘ello?”

“It’s so cold. Why is it so cold, Louis?” Harry’s voice is a bit too deep to really whine, but it’s almost there. 

“It’s winter,” Louis snaps his laptop shut, and rolls his head around, loosening up the tension in his shoulders, “Surely they told you about seasons when they sent you to alien school?”

Harry huffs indignantly, making Louis smile, “Thought I was a vampire.” 

From the kitchen table, Louis eyes the couch. It’s probably not a good plan. If he sits down in there, he’ll probably end up falling asleep, and end up with a crick in his neck for the next seven years of his life. Add that to the twinge in his arse from Harry’s apparent addiction to fucking him, and he’ll be so miserable Niall will kick him out.

He settles on kicking up his legs on the chair across from him and leaning back a little, “Nope, I tested that out. Gave you a bunch of garlic at dinner last time, you didn't even flinch. So I figure you must be an alien.” 

“I’m not an alien either,” Harry says, sounding like he’s typing at his laptop. 

“I’ll be the judge of that, thank you very much,” Louis lets his eyes slip closed. Writing nonstop like that takes too much out of him, it’s exhausting in a way that nothing else is. 

“Come to Miami with me.” 

Louis’ eyes snap open, “Excuse me?” 

“I’ve just rented my favorite beach house for a couple days. Come with me,” Harry repeats casually, like he’s asking him to pop down to the chippy just on the corner.

Louis sits up, shaking his head a little to try and wrap his head around what Harry’s throwing at him, “When? Tomorrow?” 

“Zayn can be there to get you in 20 minutes,” There's a little disturbance from Harry’s line; a deep voice grumbling and what sounds like Harry covering the phone with his hand.

Louis waits impatiently, straining his hearing to try and figure out what’s happening on the other line. He huffs and pulls the phone away, nearly ready to hang up, when Harry comes back on, sounding slightly more harassed, “I’ll come get you. It seems Zayn has other plans and I’ve been terribly rude in not checking first before messing with his social calendar.” 

Harry and Zayn’s relationship is one Louis thinks he will probably never understand. Harry and Zayn don’t seem to have a firm understanding of it either. “I can just call a cab, Haz.” 

He gets up from the table with a little groan, his lower back twinging slightly, and makes his way towards the bedroom. 

Harry’s breathing has become laboured and he sounds like he’s a bit further from the phone when he answers him, “No, you shouldn’t have to do that,” he says with a grunt. Louis is started to suspect he and Zayn are actually wrestling on the other line, “I have people that work for me. Even if they are lazy, entitled, bastards who-” 

The line goes silent, and Louis stops in the middle of the hall, looking down at his phone in bewilderment. 

Cab it is then. 

He’s only just finished packing his bag when a knock sounds at the front door. Bag on his shoulder, he goes to the door with a furrowed brow. Maybe Harry had decided to pick him up after all. 

He swings the door open and freezes in surprise. “Liam?” 

Wearing a look of annoyance, and a casual grey tracksuit, neither of which Louis has seen on the man before, Liam leans against the door jam, “I was told you are in need of a ride.” 

Louis blinks. Niall is out of town, so he’d not overheard the conversation and reached out to Liam for him. The only other person who knew is - “You know Harry?” 

The annoyed look on Liam’s face shifts to something similar to guilt, which only serves to confuse Louis further. Liam shrugs a shoulder, “Everyone in the business knows Harry in one way or the other. But, actually it was Zayn who called in the favour.” 

Frankly, Louis has been staring at his computer screen for far too long to be able to wrap his brain around this situation. With a sigh, he hikes the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder and waves Liam out of the way, “Whatever, I’ll interrogate you about this later. Let’s go.” 

Liam looks positively relieved at that, and Louis tucks that bit of information away for later. Later during the interrogation, which was absolutely not a joke and absolutely going to happen. But, for now, all Louis is worried about is following Liam out into the cold, climbing into the car, and taking a much needed nap. His eyes are closed before Liam’s even got the car in gear. 

 

Louis wakes expecting to have arrived at the Penthouse and scowls out the window in dazed confusion. He’s got absolutely no idea where they are or why it’s so fucking bright. 

 Liam glances at him through the rearview mirror and gives him a small smile, “Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Good timing, we’re here.” 

Sitting up, Louis tries to get a better look at their surroundings through the glare of the bright lights that seem to be coming from every direction, “Liam, where exactly is ‘here’?” 

“Heathrow,” Liam says matter of factly. 

He pulls the car to a stop smoothly and flicks on the parking brake, before turning around in his seat and giving Louis a smug smile. Louis leans over in his seat to looks past him and out the windshield. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Louis whispers. 

Either Louis never woke from his nap and he’s having a ridiculous dream, or he’s fallen down and suffered a concussion without noticing, because there is absolutely no way that what he’s seeing outside of the car is a  _ private jet _ . There’s just no way. 

“It won’t disappear if you blink, you know,” Liam jokes, reading Louis’ expression correctly. 

Louis snaps his eyes from the jet to Liam, scowling, “Whose is that?” 

Liam lets out a surprised burst of laughter and shakes his head, “Oh, it’s mine. I’m actually a millionaire. I just pull security jobs to pass the time.” 

It’s amazing how funny the people in Louis’ life think they are, truly. Zero self awareness across the lot of them. Louis gives him one last dirty look before climbing out of the car, enjoying the way he scrambles to get out and to the door before Louis can open it himself. 

The lights are just as bright outside of the car, though less annoying without the glare of the window glass, and they impair his vision slightly. But, not so much that he can’t tell exactly who is leaned up against the stairs of the plane, all long legs and casual posture. 

He’s got on a lilac jumper that looks incredibly soft. Louis fights the urge to run his hands over it. “You have a jet,” Louis accuses, with no preamble.

Harry tilts his head and manages to look up at him through his lashes, despite being a couple of inches taller, “I’m excited that you agreed to come.” 

Over Harry’s right shoulder, at the top of the steps, Zayn appears. Louis watches Liam jog up the steps to him, hand over Louis’ bag, and disappear into the plane. “Yes, well I didn’t agree to a private jet.” 

“We can swim, if you rather.” 

Louis gives him the most bland look he can muster with what little energy he has left and rolls his eyes, “Just get me on the fucking plane, Rockstar. I’m going back to sleep.” 

Once inside, he doesn’t really notice the interior or set up of the jet, past the soft leather seats and plush cream carpet. What he does notice, before drifting off into a deep sleep, is Harry draping a blanket over his lap, and a bouquet of sunflowers on the table by a window. 

  
  


For Louis, the trip into Miami is a blur of hot tarmac, deeply tinted windows and passing palm trees. He drifts in and out of sleep, pressed up against Harry’s side or under his arm, lulled by the movement of the car and Harry’s deep voice rumbling above him. 

When he fully wakes up, feeling refreshed and relaxed, it’s to the feel of a soft breeze and the sounds of waves crashing. Rubbing his eyes, he sits up and takes in his surroundings. 

He’s in bed alone, although by the look of the duvet and sheets to the right of him, someone else had been with him at some point. The bed is a massive affair, comfortable and positioned low to the floor. It’s all white, which matches the curtains that sway in the breeze by the open windows, and the sand he can see through said windows. 

He slides out of a bed with a stretch and a sleepy groan. The tile floor is cool, a stark contrast to the heat in the air, and makes no noise under his feet as he ambles over to the door that’s stood ajar across the room. Just outside, on a patio overlooking the beach, are two wicker chairs. The one closest to the door is full of a happy, coffee drinking, Harry Styles. 

“You look well rested,” Harry says, sipping his coffee and popping a dimple, “How do you feel?” 

Louis eyes the other wicker chair, but decides against it in favor of crawling into Harry’s lap, and swinging his legs over the arm of his chair. Harry arranges himself accordingly and hands his coffee over. Louis takes it with a small kiss to his nose, “Feel good. It’s beautiful here.” 

Harry nods, rubbing small circles against Louis’ bare thigh, “One of my favorite places.” 

Louis takes a sip of the coffee and winces. It’s that bullet coffee crap Harry likes. Whoever decided butter and coffee have any right being in the same cup should get 20 lashes, in Louis’ opinion. But, he drinks it anyway, no sense in wasting caffeine, even if it is butter flavour. 

“What are your other favorites,” Louis asks, letting his gaze slip to the water.

Harry hums for a moment, thinking it over, “Puerto Rico, for sure. I would love to take you there if you’d go. It’s so full of culture. The music, the food, the weather, the people, it’s amazing.” 

“I would go,” Louis says, taking another sip of coffee to stop  _ I’d go anywhere with you _ from falling out of his mouth. That kind of phrase isn’t Louis’ style, no matter what his heart says, “I love traveling.” 

Harry’s gaze is hot on the side of his face, but he keeps his eyes on the waves, watching them crest and roll against the sand in a cloud of foam. Harry reaches up and plays with the hair at the nape of Louis’ neck. 

“How about Paris,” he asks in a quiet murmur, still pulling gently at Louis’ hair, “The shopping is amazing. I’d buy you anything you want.” 

Louis snorts and swings his gaze back to Harry, “I’ve always wanted to be a kept man, me.” 

Harry’s smile is lopsided and warm, “Been trying to keep you since the moment I met you.” 

Holding Harry’s gaze, Louis leans over and sets the coffee cup down on the side table. Slowly, he pulls his knees back and rearranges his legs, straddling Harry. 

“And what have you been fantasising about lavishing me with?” 

Harry’s hands find their way to Louis’ hips, slip under his t-shirt and squeeze his bare skin. His eyes fall to his lap, watching Louis rock his hips slightly, “Silk sheets for one, none of that cotton crap you’ve got on your bed.” 

Louis raises a brow, “We can’t all live like kings, Harold.” 

“You can,” Harry corrects, he runs his tongue along his bottom lip, “Better than.” 

Harry’s the type to offer up grandiose things without a thought. It doesn’t mean anything, Louis reminds himself, keeping his tone light, “Just sheets then, doesn’t sound like a very lavish life you’re planning on providing.” 

Harry smirks, “Strawberry champagne. Lobster every night,” he trails a finger along Louis’ jaw, “Every meal if you wanted.” 

Louis hasn’t stopped rocking his hips and both of their dicks are showing interest. He pretends not to notice. Tilting his head to the side, he hums contemplatively, “Not sure I fancy Lobster for brekkie, but I’ll try anything once.” 

“Gold and diamonds,” Harry continues. His hips come up a little, grinding his dick against Louis’ arse, “24k gold for every part of your body I can wrap it around.” 

“This is starting sound promising,” Louis concedes, reaching over to pick up the mug again, and take a sip. 

“Do you want to go out with me tonight,” Harry asks, changing the subject abruptly like only Harry can, and frequently does. 

“Sure,” Louis says with a shrug and another sip of coffee, “I’ve got a plan.” 

“I’m all ears, Sunshine.” 

“How about you and I go back inside,” Louis grinds his hips once.Then just once more to hear that delicious sound Harry makes, “And you give me some of that royal treatment. You do a good enough job, and I’ll go wherever you want tonight.” 

Harry stands, hoisting Louis up with him, “You, gorgeous man, have a glorious knack for making plans.” 

 

Several hours, and orgasms, and one nap on the beach later, they finally get around to getting in the shower, and making themselves presentable. Louis had agreed to whatever club Harry had proposed, he didn’t have any clue what attire the place called for, but decided a blue dress shirt paired with his white jeans would be fine. 

Harry appears to have the same idea, nearly. The Miami heat seems to make Harry even more adverse to properly buttoning his shirt, and when he slides into the driver’s seat of the Cadillac, Louis thinks he only spots two done up. 

“If music doesn’t pan out for you,” Louis says, smoothing a hand over his perfectly respectable, done up, dress shirt, “You could always be one of those nude models that stands for paintings.”

“Think I’m that beautiful, do you?” Harry asks, wiggling his eyebrows around like a fool. 

Louis fixes him with a stern look and waves his hand around between them, “I think you only wear clothing because it’s illegal not to. And I’m not even sure if what you’ve got on fits within legal limits.” 

“It’s just a bit of a tease though, isn’t it,” Harry says with a shrug, as he puts the car into gear and pulls away. He looks away from the traffic for a second and catches Louis’ eye, “You’re the only one who gets it all.” 

Louis’ stomach somersaults. 

“Better be,” he says faux indignity and turns to watch the city pass by. 

Miami is a world of its own. Salsa music pumps from somewhere, everywhere, flooding the air. Everything is bright and colourful. Even in the dim light of dusk, the pinks and pale greens of the buildings shimmer against the lights that line the streets. It’s a bit like New York, in it’s crowds that walk together quickly along the pavements, a stray person or cyclist dashing across the road. But instead of urine and roasted peanuts, it smells like a mixture of ocean breeze and spicy food. When Louis gets a whiff, he inwardly cheers Harry’s decision to leave the top down. 

“Here we are,” Harry announces as he pulls the car to the curb, “This, my love, is Mangos.” 

A young man in a suit comes from behind a valet podium and waits for them the exit the car, standing a few feet away. 

“Well, I’m glad you picked something low key,” Louis says sarcastically, eyeing the throng of people standing in line by the door, “What if we can’t even get in.” 

There’s a pause, and Louis swivels in his seat to eye Harry curiously. 

“We’ll get in,” Harry says firmly, maybe a little smugly. He reaches over and unclicks Louis’ seatbelt, “Come on, let’s not keep the people waiting, Sunshine.” 

Louis rolls his eyes and gets out. He only has to wait a few seconds for Harry to come around the car and toss the keys to the valet. Then, Harry places a warm hand on his lower back and guides him towards the front door, and a very large security guard, who doesn’t pause for more than two seconds upon seeing Harry. He just shoots them a wink and unclips the velvet rope, waving them through. 

It’s no wonder Harry is unfamiliar with the word no. Louis isn’t sure he’s heard it uttered to Harry once in his presence. 

There’s a cloud of smoke, cigarette and marijuana, drifting over the heads of the crowd. It gives an eerie effect to the blue and red lights shining from the ceiling in all directions. Louis blinks at it, thrown off by the sudden dryness in his eyes. 

“I didn’t realise you could smoke inside in Miami,” Louis says directly into Harry’s ear, lowering his tone so he can be heard beneath the pulsing cumbia beat. 

Harry nods, glancing around the club. He waves at a few people that catch his eye, but his body language is different somehow from just seconds ago, Louis can’t quite put his finger on it. 

“There’s a lot of things you can do in Miami, you can’t do anywhere else,” Harry answers, with a crooked smile. 

Slowly, Louis starts to notice the crowd is shifting around them. Dozens of pairs of eyes, some assessing, some appreciative, stare at them over drinks, and from behind sneaky glances. Louis slows a bit and looks around cautiously, feeling a bit backed into a corner by the sudden attention. The music is loud, thrumming along his skin like a heartbeat, but he swears the conversation that had been floating just below the bass has dropped significantly as well.

“You see what you do,” Harry whispers into Louis’ ear, resting his hand on his lower back, “Only you could shut down an entire club that way. Look at how they’re staring at you.” 

Louis shakes his head, tilting his head to get to Harry’s ear, “More likely they’re drawn to you, Mr. I Own the World, don’t you think?” 

“Don’t think so, this isn’t my usual reception,” His hand slides down and cups Louis’ arse possessively, “You’ve got quite a set of measurements.” 

“Maybe it’s the both of us,” Louis says, letting his mouth graze against Harry’s ear, nipping at the lobe, “ _ Maybe _ everyone in this place, just wants to be us.”

Harry’s hand goes from cupping to squeezing, “Keep that up, and everyone in this place is going to be watching us fuck on this floor.” 

Louis takes a step back and hold his hands up in a motion of defeat, “I come in peace.” 

“We’ll see how you come later,” Harry half growls, nudging him forward.  

He’s ushering him towards the back, in the direction of a roped off section that contains a bar and several booths. They all seemed to be occupied, but as they make there way over a flurry of movement bursts up in the section. Men in orange polo shirts clearing a table top and briskly ushering a group of people out of the space. Making room for Harry, Louis realises, as they move through the crowd. 

If Harry notices the mayhem they’ve set in motion, he doesn’t say anything. He just gestures for Louis to sit in the booth and slides in next to him, placing his arm over the back. 

“Rum and coke?” Harry asks, waving over a server and smiling when he starts to approach. 

There’s something off about the smile. Again, there’s something just..off. But, it’s one of those things, Louis thinks, one of those situations where something feels not quite right, but not wrong enough to clearly pinpoint what is going on. So, he decides he’s probably just imagining it. 

“Yeah, that’s perfect,” he says. Most of the crowd has decided they’ve had their fill staring at them, and has started dancing again. Louis watches them with interest, “This is so different from London.” 

Harry’s body jerks against Louis’ side with a silent laugh, “You mean less grossly pretentious?” 

“Well,” Louis says with a narrow look at the crowd, “I’m sure there’s enough arseholes here, but people are actually smiling.” 

Harry drops his arm from the booth to around Louis’ shoulder and pulls him in against his side. He dips his head and nuzzles his nose at the spot just behind Louis’ ear, “It’s hard for me to notice anyone but you.” 

Louis’ dick twitches in his pants, despite the absurd tightness of his trousers and the soppiness of the comment which is absolutely not his thing. Not even a little. No matter what his dick thinks. 

A server comes baring drinks, giving Louis an escape route from responding. Her eyes linger a moment too long on Harry’s face, which makes Louis bristle just a bit, back suddenly ramrod straight. But Harry’s hand, warm and strong, squeezes his thigh under the table. 

Louis glances at him at the corner of his eye. He wants to tell him he’s fine, he doesn’t need reassurance. He’s not the least bit worried about beautiful people constantly trying to get at him, constantly fawning over him. But, it would be a lie, and they would both know it, so why bother. 

People come over to the table, almost all seem to be friends of Harry’s, or at the very least associates. He introduces them to Louis, but the faces begin to blur together after a bit, and it must show, because Harry doesn’t seem the least bit perturbed when Louis scoots away, just a little, effectively avoiding the need to shake hands with 101 people. 

The music washes over him while he drinks, his head bobbing along with the thumping bass. There’s a girl in the crowd in a black dress with rainbow sequins, the way the lights hits it keeps drawing Louis’ eye. She must feel his gaze, because she turns and meets it with a bright smile. Louis, from across the room and without having spoken one word to her, likes her instantly. 

She makes her way to the table at an impressive clip, especially taking her four inch heels into account, but is stopped from entering the section by a large man in an orange polo. Quirking a brow, she looks at Louis expectantly. 

She’s got balls, this bird, Louis can tell, and he’s always respected that in a person. 

“Harry,” Louis calls, wincing a little when he realises he’s interrupting a conversation, “Sorry. Listen can you have them let that girl in?” 

Harry follows Louis’ line of sight to the velvet rope, and then looks back and forth between the girl and Louis, forehead creased in confusion. 

“Do you know her?” 

“No,” Louis says with a shrug, “I want to talk to her, I think.” 

Harry gives him a shrug of his own and motions to the bouncer to let her through, before giving Louis a wink and turning back to his conversation. 

Little black sequin dress wiggles her way through the crowd, and sits across from Louis with a flip of her hair and an outstretched hand. 

“Gabrielle,” she says. Her accent is distinctly latino, soft around the edges, “My friends call me Gabby.” 

Louis takes her hand. “Hello Gabrielle. I’m Louis, my friends call me all sorts of things I’m not able to repeat in polite company.” 

She leans forward and laughs, a deep throaty kind that makes Louis like her even more. He smiles and takes a sip of his drink while she props her head on her fist and studies him. 

“That was impressive,” she says, tilting her head in Harry’s direction. She’s looking him in the eyes as she speaks to him, being direct and frank. It reminds Louis again that they’re far from the London elite scene. Which is incredibly refreshing. 

“What was?” 

“Getting him to let me in that way,” Gabrielle explains. There’s laughter in her voice and in her eyes, “He’s in charge, no?” 

Louis tilts his head side to side, contemplating, “He’d like to think so, probably. People think he’s important, if that’s what you mean.” 

Gabrielle nods, “My abuela used to tell me, when I was a little girl, that my abuelo was the ship, and that he carried the family where it needed to go.” 

Louis nods along, enchanted by the woman and the impromptu story hour, “Same thing with my Nan.” 

“She also used to tell me that she was the compass, and that the compass turns the ship whichever way she pleases,” Gabrielle says, cocking a brow.

Louis laughs, “Sounds like your abuela was the kind of woman I like being around.” 

Gabrielle looks over her shoulder and waves down a server, motioning for a shot. When she turns back around, she points to him, “ _ You _ are the compass.” 

Louis’ jaw drops open in surprise and then he cackles, tossing his head back. Picking his drink up, he shakes his head fondly, “I think I quite like that.” 

The server has come around with the shot for Gabrielle, and she takes it with a nod of thanks. She taps her glass to his and pauses before taking the shot, “So did abuela.” 

“You said people think he’s important,” she dabs her mouth with a napkin from the table, and then tosses it aside, tilting her head, “You don’t?” 

Louis opens his mouth and then stops. Turning, he watches Harry chat with some man, in one or five too many gold chains. Harry’s hands are moving between them, swinging this way and that. The club lights bounce off the green in his eyes and take Louis’ breath away for a second. He turns back to Gabrielle, hoping he’s not blushing. 

“I think he’s the most important person in the world.” 

She positively beams, “Perfect.” 

Louis’ eyebrows climb up his forehead, “Perfect?” 

With a nod, she stands and straightens her dress, “I’m looking for someone to dance with me, someone who isn’t gonna put their hands all over my ass. Looks like you fit the bill.” 

Louis huffs, fighting back a smile, “I could be bi, you know.”

Gabrielle laughs again, “It’s not about where you like to stick your dick,” she reaches a hand out, waiting, “You’re in love.” 

Louis blinks and freezes. He thinks he can actually hear the cogs in his brain grind to a halt. He’s  _ what _ ? 

Gabrielle must get impatient with his life crisis because she rolls her eyes and grabs for his hand, pulling him out of the booth. 

“It’s okay if you didn’t know, guapo,” she assures him with a little pat to his chest, “You’ll feel better with a little dancing.” 

Without another word she turns and starts winding her way back out of the VIP section, pulling Louis along with her. He’s still thunderstruck over her announcement, and with no other imaginable alternative, follows her into the middle of the floor. 

They dance for so long, the crowd around them changes twice. The music blends from song to song and sweat drips down Louis back, but he just keeps dancing. He’s never had a night like this, not a care in the world, dancing like not a soul can see. He doesn’t even realise the time until the floor starts to empty, people breaking off into couples and swaying away towards the bar or the door. It’s like the woman’s a witch, and has him under some kind of spell. 

He tells her so, while he’s kissing her cheek goodbye, and it makes her laugh that warm laugh again. 

“I like you Louis,” she announces, kissing him back and holding him at arm's length, “Look after your very important lover. And look me up next time you come to my city, guapo.” 

Louis agrees to, and watches her go with a pleased smile on his face. He drops it completely when he turns around and spots Harry in the VIP area. It feels so much like someone’s dumped a bucket of ice water over his head, he almost looks down to check if he’s standing in a puddle. 

Harry’s surrounded, absolutely and utterly surrounded by a throng of people. They’re practically crawling all over him, men and women alike, pressed together in the small section and vying for his attention. His face is shrouded and Louis can’t make out his expression, but his body is rigid. Louis stares at the scene, frozen in shock, until a woman with long blonde hair, who is draped across the seat next to Harry, reaches up and grabs his jaw, yanking his face towards her own and smiling darkly. 

Louis fights his way through the crowd, thankful that it’s starting to thin out, and nearly plows through the crowd at the velvet rope to get to Harry. 

“Harry,” Louis snaps, narrowing his eyes at the grabby blonde, until she slides away an inch or so. Harry doesn’t look in his direction. Fear laces through him. 

“Harry,” Louis tries again, gentling his tone and leaning forward a bit. This time Harry looks at him. The cold look in his eye makes Louis want to scream, “I want Lobster.” 

Harry blinks slowly, it’s the only movement in his aloof expression, “What?” 

Louis wets his lips and wills himself to stay calm, “I want Lobster, remember you told me you’d give me lobster whenever I wanted?” 

Harry expression doesn’t change except for a small quirk of his brow, “Lobster?” 

Louis glares at the blonde, “Get the fuck up.” 

He must look terrifying, because she doesn’t even bother looking offended before sliding out of the booth. Louis takes her place and slowly places a hand on Harry’s chest. Harry stares at it. 

“Yeah, Lobster,” Louis confirms, “Treat me like a king, you said. Don’t you remember?”

Harry’s eyes come up, and when Louis sees them clear a little, he fights back the urge to cheer. Harry covers his hand with his own, “And silk sheets.” 

“That’s right,” Louis says, tone still gentle, “Can we go get some lobster?” 

Harry nods and stands slowly, “Alright.” 

Louis doesn’t hesitate. He drags Harry up out of the booth and out of the club as fast as he can, elbowing and shoving his way through the crowd. The valet jumps to attention as soon as they clear the door. 

Louis pulls Harry to the side of the club and takes his face in his hands. 

“Harry, look at me,” Louis commands, “Listen to me.” 

Harry’s hands come up and settle on Louis’ waist. He doesn’t respond but he watches, eyes green and bright. 

“Harry, those people don’t own you,” Louis says urgently, “You don’t owe any of them a damn thing. They..they can’t-“

Louis stops, unexpected tears choking him up. He doesn’t let go of Harry to wipe them away, instead letting them fall unchecked. 

Harry watches one roll down his cheek and then brings his eyes back to Louis’, “They can’t what?” 

Hurt you. Use you. Take from you. 

“Have you,” Louis whispers, “They can’t have you. Fuck ‘em.” 

Slowly, Harry tilts his chin down and presses their foreheads together. He takes in a shaky breath, “Fuck ‘em?” 

Louis nods, “They don’t matter, Harry.” 

They stay that way stay that way for several minutes. Foreheads pressed together in silence, with the sounds of Miami floating around them, and their hearts beating in synch. 

“Still have a craving for lobster?” 

Louis snorts and leans back. Relief floods him when he looks up and sees the normal Harry, his Harry, looking back at him, “Maybe some ice cream?” 

Harry takes a step back and holds out a hand, “Coming right up, Sunshine.” 


	5. Five

It takes roughly three hundred and fifty six people to get Harry ready for an event. Well, give or take three hundred and fifty. It feels like that many though, Louis thinks, watching Harry’s herd of staff hustling about the room, like chickens recently divested of their fucking heads. He’s not gotten their names, he was  _ given _ their names, but was a little preoccupied with the sheer number of the people armed with luggage and clothing racks rushing into the Penthouse to store the information. 

Louis is marveling at the noise level, when Harry spins his chair around slowly and gives him a soft, sweet smile, “Hey.” 

The rest of the room melts away in a way that Louis will never admit to Harry, “Hey yourself, Rockstar.” 

Harry scrunches his nose and flicks a wayward curl from near his eye, “Will you stay tonight?” 

Louis thinks about refusing, they’ve only been together for a couple months, are they really at the point where Louis can just lounge around waiting for Harry to get home from meeting with other filthy rich knobs and knobettes? But, it’s not like he really wants to go so, “Of course, I’ve got a busy night ahead of me, don’t I? I’m just waiting for you lot to clear out so I can order some Thai and spill half of it across your expensive duvet cover. Netflix and chow.” 

Harry’s answering smile is blinding. Louis rolls his eyes and thinks maybe its okay that he’s in a little deeper than he planned, Harry is obviously swimming right along with him. 

“Won’t you get lonely,” Harry asks, “Just you, Thai, and the Moon?” 

Louis cocks a brow. “I’m never lonely. I’m a man of steel, Harold.” 

“I could always stay home,” Harry says, much to the chagrin of the woman ¾ of the way done with his hair. 

“Sometimes, I wonder if you understand English,” Louis says, chiding. 

“Will you text me?” Harry bats away another curl, and bats his eyelashes imploringly. 

Louis does his level best to look unaffected. He’s been practicing. He sighs and goes for the dryest tone he can, “For what, take out recommendations?” 

“To tell me if you’re missing me.” 

_ I’ll miss you as soon as you walk out the door  _ is sitting right on the tip of his tongue, so he swallows it back and takes a sip from the water bottle on the nightstand, to buy himself a second or two. 

“I just told you, I won’t miss you,” Louis rolls his eyes, “I barely like you at all.” 

Harry rolls his eyes, grinning widely, “Whatever you say, Sunshine.”

 

He doesn’t order Thai, deciding instead on Indian. He does eat it in Harry’s bed, spreading out his garlic naan and spicy masala over a towel, because he’s not actually horrible and doesn’t want to destroy the white duvet. He does binge on Netflix, Black Mirror specifically, but instead of his usual beer, he couples the Indian and the spooky show with a couple of glasses of scotch from the behind the bar. 

A couple of episodes in, while searching for his phone amongst the pillows, he gets to blame the scotch for what he’s about to do. 

_ Might miss you a bit  _

He sends the text and then tosses the phone aside, shaking his head at himself. The scotch is to blame, he reminds himself again, tearing a piece of naan off and popping it in his mouth. Not even he believes it. 

 

A slam and a muffled curse from somewhere near the lift sounds through the Penthouse and jolts Louis out of sleep violently. He scrambles up, patting the nightstand for his glasses, and manages to to flick the light on, just as Harry lumbers into sight. 

“Ugh, turn that off,” Harry groans, squinting against the light. He stalks toward Louis, roughly pulling at his buttons on his god awful shirt. His knees hit the bed and he crawls up, “Was worried you wouldn’t be here.” 

Louis watches his progress, trying to assess just how drunk Harry is. He’s not slurring, but he smells pretty strongly of vodka. Vodka and other people. “I told you I would. Where else would I be?” 

Kneeling in the middle of the bed, Harry shrugs, more focused on pulling the sheet down Louis’ body slowly. He licks his lips when Louis’ bare stomach comes into view, “Somewhere else.” 

Louis snorts. He’s not wanted to be “somewhere else” in too many nights to count. He starts to tell him so, but Harry looks up with a heat in his eyes, that has the words shriveling up and blowing away like sand in a strong breeze. 

“I’ve been thinking about you for hours,” Harry murmurs. It’s so quiet, Louis wouldn’t have known he’d said it had he not been watching his mouth.

“Have you,” Louis asks quietly, tilting his head, “Even with all those important people around to keep your attention?” 

Harry crawls up the length of Louis’ body and looms over him, his palms planted on either side of his head, “Not that important.” 

“You smell like liquor,” Louis comments, just for something to say. 

Harry snorts, “So do you,” Leaning back on to his knees, he rolls his shoulders back, letting the shirt fall down his arms, and then yanking it off his wrists, “A common symptom of drinking.” 

God he’s so fit. “You’re a smart arse, has anyone ever told you?” Louis drags his hands down Harry’s bare chest, reveling in the way the skin shivers under his touch. 

“You have, once or three hundred times, but who’s counting?” Harry tips his head back and closes his eyes, letting Louis run his hands over his torso. 

He’s so responsive, every part of him lights up like a Christmas tree, with only so much as a graze of Louis’ fingers. He wonders if Harry’s always like this, if he’s been like this with other lovers, then decides that’s something he rather not think about. 

“What about me had you so distracted,” Louis asks, dragging his fingers down to the waistband of Harry’s jeans, and tugging at it. 

“Besides your text?” 

Louis smirks, “Yeah, besides that.” 

Harry gets the message and slides off the bed, unzipping them and dragging them down his legs roughly. He is, of fucking course, not wearing pants. “Remember that time in Miami?” 

Louis hums, eyes on Harry’s dick, hard and curving up toward his stomach, “Dimly.” 

“All those people. The whole club, staring at you, thought about that,” Harry says, climbing back on the bed. He sits next to Louis, with his back against the headboard and his legs stretched out. Reaching over, he yanks Louis and pulls him into his lap. His hands instantly find their way to his arse, kneading, “Jesus this arse. So you’ve been sitting here all night, naked in my bed, drinking my scotch.” 

“Wasn’t naked the whole time. Had some Indian too,” Louis gasps, rocking forward so that their dicks slide together deliciously, “Had clothes on when they dropped it off.” 

Harry’s hands slide up, dragging over Louis’ back, circling softly at the skin between his shoulder blades, “That’s good, I’d hate to have to decapitate some poor bloke tonight.” 

Louis kisses him, biting his lower lip gently, “Barbarian.” 

Harry smiles against his mouth and pulls away, trailing kisses across his jaw and down his neck. Louis closes his eyes, shuddering every time Harry rocks forward, giving him more delicious friction between their bodies and their dicks. 

“Did you know,” Harry murmurs against Louis’ ear, “That I can watch you like this, in the reflection of the telly.” 

Louis turns and looks over his shoulder. Harry’s right, there in the reflection of the huge screen across from the bed, is a picture of them. Louis rolls his hips, watching himself move in Harry’s lap, watching Harry’s hands, huge and possessive slide back down to grasp his arse firmly. 

“Do you like it?” Harry asks, leaning down to suck a mark along Louis’ collarbone, “Do you like how we look together?” 

Louis nods and slides his hands up to Harry’s shoulders, digging his fingers in.

“All those people tonight,” Harry says, between presses of his mouth to Louis’ skin, “And all I could think about was you shaking your arse on that dance floor in Miami.” 

Louis hums and leans back, looking in Harry’s eyes, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, voice like gravel, “Turn around for me.” 

Louis starts to turn, spinning in Harry’s lap, but he’s stopped by Harry’s hand gripping his bicep. 

“Slow,” Harry says, “Go slow.” 

The look on his face is so hungry, so open, Louis feels a little lightheaded looking at him. He turns slowly, facing away from Harry, and leans forward a bit, arching his back. 

Harry sucks in a quick breath, pulling the air through his teeth with a hiss, then his hands are warm and rough, sliding down Louis’ back and cupping his arse. 

“Finest thing I’ve ever seen,” Harry mumbles, mostly to himself. He strokes his hand across one cheek, sliding his hand lower and under, then pats it more firmly, watches it bounce. Another harsh intake of breath, “Look at that.” 

Louis can’t look though, not at what Harry’s seeing anyway. In his line of vision is only his reflection in the tv, kneeling in Harry’s lap, thighs shaking with want and chest rising and falling quickly. 

He takes a deep shuddering breath, “Touch me.”

“I am,” Harry answers quietly, and Louis doesn’t have to be able to see him to know he’s smirking. 

Harry likes to play games sometimes, all faux innocence and batting eyelashes. That’s fine. 

Louis slides his hands back and holds himself open, fingers gripping tightly where Harry’s had just been, smiling when Harry groans. He turns and looks over his shoulder, blinking slowly. 

“Please,” he simpers, and just to ensure defeat, bites down on his lower lip. 

Harry’s nostrils flare and his mouth drops open. 

“That’s not fair,” he growls. He leans over and yanks open the night table, rummaging around. It takes him a second but when he leans back up he’s got the lube. He snicks it open while Louis watches and coats two fingers with it. “You’re too pretty for your own good. Goddamn cheekbones.” 

Louis’ laugh is cut off and petters into a ragged breath, as Harry uses both fingers to open him up, no hesitation at all, “Fuck.” 

“Mmhmm,” Harry mumbles, mouthing at Louis’ shoulder blades, “You’re so hot around me. How can you always be so tight?” 

Louis takes another shuddering breath and rocks down, riding Harry’s fingers, “I’m magical, me. Didn’t you know?” 

Harry rewards him, either for fucking himself back into Harry’s hand or for the joke, Louis doesn’t know, by curling his fingers and pressing firmly against his prostate. Louis’ head drops forward. His entire body shivers in pleasure and want and  _ need _ . 

The skin along his shoulder and neck tingles with beard burn and love bites. Harry never stops moving his mouth against his skin, even as he slowly fucks his fingers deep. He marks him, every inch of him he can reach. They’ll be sore tomorrow, and Harry will trail his fingers over them, reminding Louis who put them there. 

“I’m gonna fuck you like this,” Harry mumbles, pulling his fingers out gently and sliding his hands under Louis’ thighs. 

“Oh good,” Louis says, scrambling to hold onto Harry’s legs as he lifts him a little from the bed, “Here I thought we were going to play cards.” 

Harry pauses, holding Louis’ tilted forward just a bit, and then pinches him. Hard. 

“You’re a dick,” he grumbles. He sounds grouchy, but his dick, hard and leaking in its newfound position pressed against Louis’ rim, is not.

Louis licks his bottom lip and nods, “Yeah, but I’m your dick.” 

Harry responds by wrapping his arm around Louis’ chest, holding him still, and pressing in slowly. The head of his dick feels impossible, like it always does, but inevitable all at the same time. Louis gulps in air, grabbing at Harry’s arm and holding on tightly. 

“Watch,” Harry whispers. Louis’ eyes snap up to the reflection in telly, “Look how beautiful you are. You fit me so perfectly.” 

Once Louis looks, he can’t look away. Harry keeps pressing forward, inch by inch. Louis is for the first time seeing and feeling his body react to the onslaught. It’s overwhelming to say the least. 

When Harry’s stopped pressing forward, fully inside, Louis lets out a ragged breath and rolls his hips. Harry’s hands fly down to Louis’ waist gripping tightly. 

Louis waits for him to lift him slightly, for him to pull him up and then press him back down on his dick. But, instead Harry just shifts his hips against him, grinding deep. 

Louis whimpers, “Feels good.” 

“Feels amazing,” Harry agrees, voice like sandpaper, “Can you come like this, you think?” 

“I-“ Louis blinks rapidly, wetting his lips. It’s hard to think when he’s got him like this. All full of dick and nothing to do but take it, “I don’t know.” 

Harry hums and circles his hips again, so thick inside Louis he could scream. He does it twice more, that sinful, grinding little twist of hips, before sliding a hand around Louis’ torso and sheathing his dick in a loose fist, “How about now?” 

Pleasure spikes through Louis like a bolt of lightning, hot and burning. Harry holds him down, keeps him from doing anything more than rocking down and then up again into his waiting fist. It’s not enough. It’s too much. 

“I think you can,” Harry murmurs, pressing his hips up, “I could. I could right now, feeling you squeeze around me like that. God, you’re so close aren’t you, baby.” 

Sweat drips from Louis’ brow. More makes a trail down his chest and down his stomach. In the hazy reflection of the telly, Louis thinks he can see it glisten.

“Wanna come, Haz.” 

At that, whatever had been tethering Harry to his control snaps, and he slams up into Louis with a groan, “I’m gonna give you what you want.” 

The way his arm tightens around Louis’ torso would probably hurt, if Louis could focus on anything other than the orgasm building at the base of his spine. Harry lets go and shoves his hands under Louis’ thighs, lifting him and Louis scrambles to help him. With both hands planted on the mattress, Louis leans forward and slams back to meet Harry’s thrusts. 

“Yes,” Louis groans, “Yeah, just like that.” 

“Come on baby,” Harry urges, breathless, “Come for me, Louis. Know you want to.” 

That’s all it takes, apparently, for Louis’ brain to white out and his whole body to shake with pleasure as he comes all over himself, making a sticky mess of the sheets, squeezing Harry’s dick tightly. 

Harry groans and yanks Louis back and down, impaling him roughly once, twice, three times, before he stills and comes inside him with a shout. He doesn’t pull out right away, just leans back against the headboard and tips his head up, breathing heavily. 

Louis’ body is on strike, completely shut down for business, so he doesn’t bother trying to climb off or turn around. Instead, he just leans back too, against Harry’s sweaty chest, and closes his eyes. 

“You should miss me more often,” Harry says with a grin, after a moment of quiet. 

Louis smiles, “I’ll work on it.” 

Harry laughs, jostling Louis around a bit on his lap. Louis retaliates by squeezing around his still half hard dick, which ends the laughter fairly quickly. 

“You keep doing that and you’re gonna get fucked again,” Harry warns, eyes still closed. 

Louis can think of worse things that could happen. 


	6. Six

Louis is in the middle of one of Niall’s harebrained schemes, into which he’d been roped before he’d had his morning cuppa, which should have disqualified him from having to uphold his end of the deal, when he gets a text from Harry that makes him freeze in his tracks. 

_ I think you’re the only person I’ve ever loved _

Louis reads it again, and then a third time just to be sure his eyes aren’t failing him. They’ve never said that to each other, the L word, not in person and certainly not through text message, or carrier pigeon, or any other form of human contact. Louis knows in his gut, something is not right. 

The phone rings four times before Harry picks up, “‘ello?” 

“Hey,” Louis says, at a loss for words. He’d been so concerned with figuring out what was going on he’d forgotten to think of how to approach the situation at all, “Hi.” 

“You already said that,” Harry says, with a discernible slur and a bit of a rasp that sounds like he might be crying, “We both said hello.” 

“You’re right, I did,” Louis sighs. Niall passes him and pauses with a questioning look, but Louis waves him away, “How much have you had to drink, Haz?” 

“Too much.” 

“Fair enough,” Louis says leaning against the wall and tipping his head back, “You alright, you sound sad.” 

The line is quiet for a while, long enough that Louis almost repeats the question. When Harry’s voice carries back through the speaker it’s rougher. 

“I’m okay,” Harry says quietly, “Just tired I guess.” 

It’s not the only thing wrong, Louis wouldn’t have to be a rocket scientist to know that, but maybe it’s not a good idea to push right now. “Do you want me to come over?”

“Yes.” Harry’s answer is immediate, like a knee jerk reaction. He huffs a little laugh at himself, “Yes please, if you’re not..if you’re not busy.” 

Louis pushes off the wall and heads for the door, “Nah, just got done. I’m all yours Curly.” 

“Okay,” Harry says slowly, carefully like he’s trying not to slur, “I’m not home.” 

Grabbing his coat off the chair, Louis balances the phone between his chin and his shoulder, and pulls it on, “Alright, where are you?”

“Well, I am home. Just- I’m downstairs,” Harry answers with a hiccup, “At the bar.” 

“Alright, Rockstar. Don’t worry, I’m sure I can find you. I’ll look for glitter.” 

Harry’s still giggling as Louis hangs up. 

 

The bar is practically empty, which makes sense for a Tuesday at seven, so Louis spots Harry as soon as the sliding doors open. He’s not in anything that glitters, but in gray sweats and a black hoodie - his go to ‘please don’t notice me look’. Louis takes in his posture, the way he’s slumped forward with his head in the palm of his hand, and furrows his brow in concern. 

“Hey, Rockstar,” Louis greets quietly, slipping on to the stool next to Harry. 

Harry jerks up, visibly startled, and almost drops his glass, “That was fast.” 

“Decided to call an Uber instead of riding a pony down,” Louis says, winking at Harry and nodding to the bartender when she comes over, “Just a water, thanks love.” 

Harry laughs quietly, but his eyes dart away from Louis’ face and land somewhere over his right shoulder. He takes a sip of his drink and then swirls the contents around. 

“Are we going to have  _ the talk _ ,” he asks, watching his glass. 

“The talk?” Louis props his elbow on the bar, “That’s about 100 or so orgasms too late into this relationship, don’t you think?”

“Not that one,” Harry says with a smirk, he pauses and looks up, “100, yeah?” 

Louis rolls his eyes, “Hyperbole, hot shot. What talk is it that we’re meant to be having?” 

Harry’s eyes dart away again and he takes another sip of his drink.

“The one where you tell me you’ve had a great time, but this life isn’t really for you. It’s not me it’s you. It’s all a little too intense, I’m a little too much to deal with.” 

Louis stares at him, eyes wide and mouth gaping, “Why would you- Harry,” Louis murmurs, Harry’s eyes jerk to Louis’, “We aren’t going to have that talk, no.” 

Harry blinks. “Oh.” 

Louis is really not one to get sloshed on a Tuesday night, but the implication that Harry’s been let down too many times to count makes Louis’ throat thick, so he waves the bartender over and asks her for a jack and coke. 

“So, are we going to get drunk together in silence,” Louis asks, watching Harry’s expression closely, “Or are you going to tell me what’s got you upset?” 

“How about-” Harry stops mid sentence and sighs, “How about a little of both?” 

Louis knows how it feels to need a little liquid courage, he’d nearly drank himself under the table before coming out to his Mum, and he senses that whatever weight is currently resting on Harry’s chest is not a bit lighter than a ton of bricks. So, he orders another round for them, and then another after that, all the while chattering on about unimportant day to day nonsense. And, when Harry’s just shy of arse over tea kettle, and is thoroughly up to date on Niall’s latest interest in the barista down the street, Harry starts talking. 

“I meant what I said,” Harry blurts out, interrupting Louis’ diatribe about maple candy, “Earlier, I mean.” 

“You prefer peppermint,” Louis asks, cocking a brow, “That’s okay, I’m used to you being wrong.” 

“No,” Harry says with a shake of his head and a small smile. He looks like he wants to continue but can’t figure out how, “I- um. My Dad stopped speaking to me when I was 15.” 

Louis does his level best to keep his expression neutral, given the sudden and pretty extreme turn in the conversation. There’s no way Harry’s going to keep talking if Louis freaks out, that much he’s sure of. “I didn’t know that, I thought for sure I’d seen you two in pap pics. You know, family holidays and things.” 

Harry snorts darkly, his face clouding. He slams his drink and motions for another. The bartender comes over, but Louis shakes his head infinitesimally. She seems to get the message, because she moves back a couple steps. Hovering, but not serving.

“That’s what pap pics are for, aren’t they?” Harry drags his hand over his face, “Show the public what you want them to see, feed them the perfect image. My Dad, uh- My Dad somehow managed to get his image protection folded into my contract when I first started in the business. Guess he was planning on cutting ties for a while, and didn’t want people thinking he’s a deadbeat.” 

“Why-” Louis stops and tries to sort his thoughts, “Did he ever give you a reason?” 

Harry shrugs, picking up his glass again and frowning at it, like he’d forgotten it was empty, “Not in so many words, but he hit me when I was 10 for playing with Barbies, so it might have something to do with me liking dick.” 

Louis’ blood runs cold. On the bar, his hand clenches into a fist so tightly, his knuckles turn white, “He’s a piece of shit.” 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, eyes downcast. After a silent couple of seconds he looks up, eyes wet. “So, um. Yeah so my therapist says his abandonment made it harder for me to open up to people. It makes me put up a um - like a-” 

“You mean when you turn into Rockstar Harry,” Louis finishes gently, he tilts his head and gives him a soft smile, “When you put up your wall?” 

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly, and then a little more loudly, “Yeah exactly. But, I don’t have to do that with you.” 

“Because I’m so wonderful, obviously.” 

“Because I’m in love with you.” 

Louis nearly slides off his stool, “Oh.” 

The bartender moves away, just a little further down the bar, trying to give them a semblance of privacy, Louis thinks. 

“Well, that’s a good thing,” Louis says after a moment of deep breathing. 

Harry blinks, “Yeah, why’s that?”

“Because I’m in love with you too, hotshot.” 

Harry’s look of utter shock is equal parts funny and heartbreaking. Here’s one of the worlds most giving, sweet, and caring men, and he doesn’t believe anyone could actually love him. Louis wouldn’t mind getting a few moments alone with Harry’s Dad. 

“Really?” Harry asks, stunned. 

“Yeah, really,” Louis confirms. He slides off his stool and holds his hand out, “Not that I did it on purpose mind you. I was all set to live the bachelor life forever.”

Harry takes his hand and lets himself be pulled from his stool, “Sorry I ruined your plans.” 

“That’s alright,” Louis says with a smile, sliding his hands up to cup Harry’s jaw on either side, “How about we go upstairs, make some tea, and have a cuddle on the couch?” 

Harry kisses him softly, “You’re a genius.” 

Louis smiles and makes for the lift, pulling Harry behind him, “It’s nice to hear it acknowledged from time to time.”

 

The next morning, Louis wakes up on the couch with a crick in his neck and about 75 feet of Harry Styles wrapped around him like a startled octopus. He blinks his eyes open and stares at the ceiling, trying to figure out what’s woken him, when he hears his phone dinging from over by the bar. 

With a groan, and no small amount of effort, Louis disentangles himself from Harry and gets his phone. Groaning again when he reads the subject of the alarm. 

Harry wakes up, either from the groaning or the shoving, and opens one eye, “Where’d you go?” 

Louis adjusts his fringe and walks back over to the couch. He sits on the the coffee table and runs a hand through Harry’s hair, tugging a little at the curls, “I’ve got to get an article in to my boss within the hour. I’m gonna run home, I didn’t bring my laptop last night.” 

Harry pouts, “Can’t you quit and stay here with me forever?” 

“Oh sure,” Louis says, shrugging, “Just give me a moment and I’ll put in my notice, to hell with bills and the like.” 

“I’m gonna go out a buy a ring,” Harry mumbles grouchily, punching the pillow into a different shape under his head, “Then I’ll marry you and keep you here all the time.” 

A happy twist works its way through Louis’ belly, but he keeps it off his face. Standing up, he pats Harry’s cheek, “You do that.” 

“I’ve got some kind of meeting,” Harry tells him around a yawn, “At two, 2 I think. Text me and we’ll go for dinner at that taco place.” 

“Deal,” Louis says before tipping forward and pressing a smacking kiss to Harry’s soft mouth. 

Louis grabs his wallet and heads to the lift, ordering an Uber as it brings him down. The hotel is so different in the morning, more bustling staff and ringing phones and less short skirts and thumping bassline. With one last glance at the bar, Louis heads out and onto the street, and grabs a coffee at the stand on the corner to wait for his car. 

He finds a ridiculous amount of emails waiting for him in his work account. And his entire article has been ripped to shreds by the editor, a term Louis uses fairly loosely, so he’s got to rewrite that, and bang another out about Ariana Grande’s new infatuation with off the shoulder outerwear, all to be done by noon. 

He sighs and gets to work. The faster he gets done, the faster he can get back to Harry. His fingers pause over the keys as he realises what he’s just thought. Well, there’s no sense in worrying about it anymore. He’s fallen in love. 

There’s no turning back now. 

 

Harry doesn’t text him for dinner, but Louis figures his meeting has just run long and starts binge watching some shit show on netflix once he’s got his writing done. 

He gets up to use the loo at one point and realises he’s been watching the mind numbing reality show for so long, that he’d not noticed that it’s past 8pm. Shaking his head at himself, he shoots Harry a text letting him know he’s good for the rest of the night and to let him know when he wants to go. 

Two more episodes turn into three and then, accidently, Louis falls asleep on the couch. He wakes up to sunlight streaming in through the windows and directly into his face. Grumbling grouchily at the lack of curtains and the crick in his neck, he smacks the carpet next to the couch until he finds his phone. 

There’s nothing from Harry. Louis furrows his brow in confusion, punching in the code and unlocking the screen. This never happens, not with Harry. Since the day he’d given him his phone number, he’s been on the receiving end of endless communication, most of which is nonsensical emojis or easily googleable questions. But, Harry always answers, he’s never gone this long without doing so. 

A little worried, Louis slides off the couch and makes his way to the kitchen. He readies the kettle, standing at the counter stretching. The daily paper catches his eyes, over by the sink. Niall must have come home this morning then, he’s got a weird fascination with reading physical newspapers. Louis grabs it up and scans the front page casually and then freezes. 

Slowly, he rereads the headline and then reads it again. With a sinking feeling, like a ton of bricks in his stomach, Louis realises exactly why his phone is so quiet. 

And the reason makes him want to vomit. 

 

“Please tell me you don’t think I actually fucking wrote this.” The paper thuds where Louis smacks it against Harry’s chest and then flutters to the floor. 

“Isn’t that what you do?” Harry’s response is cool, cold even. Standing in his bare feet with a glass of scotch in a plush white bathrobe, with the belt secured loosely around his middle. Louis wants to snatch it off and strangle him with it. 

“I write for a tabloid,” Louis snaps, dragging his hand through his hair, “Almost all of the articles I write are fed to me through managers and publicists. Why would I write this shit?” 

“For the money,” Harry responds with a sip of scotch, eyes cold over the edge, “Obviously. Isn’t that why you’re here?” 

It feels like someone dumped an ice bath right over Louis’ head. It’s Harry’s rockstar persona, the fucking act he puts on for people that want nothing but to use him for attention, and money. The act he’d seen him using the first time they’d met, and in the club in Miami, the one he said he never had to use on Louis. “You think I’m dating you for money?” 

“Is that what we’re doing? Dating?” 

What a fucking piece of shit. “Excuse me?” 

Harry turns his back on him, in an obvious show of disrespect, and saunters over behind his bar, clinking the ice cubes around in his glass. He fills it and continues, not bothering to look at Louis like he’s a human being or anything. 

“I think what we’ve been doing can be referred to as casual fucking at best,” Harry murmurs, all bravado and carelessness. Louis feels like his insides are being ripped out through his nose. This is the man he’d fallen in love with? “I like a man with ambition, Louis. You got your story, a couple of outfits, and a few good fucks out of the deal, as well. I can’t fault you for a game well played. 

Louis blinks. “You can’t fault me.” 

Harry nods. Walking back around the bar he leans the top casually and sips his drink, eyeing Louis with indifference. 

Harry can’t fault him for a game well played. Harry thinks this was all a game. Well, if he wants a game, who is Louis to tell him no? 

He takes a little breath and looks up from his lashes, watching Harry try and process the change in his body language. Slowly, he slinks across the soft carpet to him, stopping when they are toe to toe. Harry stares down at him, surprise clearly written all over his face. 

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Louis simpers, reaching his hand up slowly, dragging it down Harry’s chest, pushing the robe aside. He’s never worked so hard to resist ripping off someone’s nipple in his life, “I would hate for you to be angry with me.” 

Harry sways forward a little, caught between what his dick is telling him, and what his brain is warning him against. When Louis’ fingers curl around the waistband of his silk pajama bottoms, Harry sucks in a little breath. 

Louis looks up coyly and with the other hand grabs Harry’s drink. He sips it while Harry stares at him with dark eyes. Apparently, his dick won the debate. 

“But, you know Harry,” Louis continues, voice still silky smooth, “You can fuck right off.” 

In an instant, Louis yanks Harry’s waistband from his body with one hand and, with the other, pours the entire content of the glass directly down his pants, effectively icing his dick. 

He whirls around and stomps out of the room, to the chorus of Harry’s loud cursing, and the sound of limbs falling to the floor. 


	7. Seven

When Niall Horan was eight years old, he’d almost died. It was the dead of winter, sometime in the middle of January, he’s pretty sure, and he’d gotten it into his head to go ice fishing in the pond just outside his little town. 

Dressed in full winter gear, and toting a handmade fishing pole, he’d inched his way, one slippery step at a time, to the middle of the pond, where he’d promptly crashed through the ice, and plunged into the freezing cold water. His fluffy coat and snow trousers had immediately transformed into anchors, dragging him further underwater, no matter how hard he kicked and fought against it. 

Louis Tomlinson, a complete stranger, and just a nine year old child himself, had dashed across the ice, reached inside, and hauled Niall out, without so much as one thought about his own safety. They’d scrambled off the ice and fallen into the snow at the ponds edge, out of breath and terrified, staring at the sky. 

From that day forward, Niall and Louis were inseparable. It’s kind of hard not to become best friends with the boy who saved your life, right? And if Niall always felt a sense of protectiveness over Louis, well that was natural too. He knows Louis feels the same way, can see it in the way he texts him if he’s out much later than he’d planned, the way he reads over Niall’s contracts, with narrowed eyes and suspicious look on his face. 

They’re best friends and they look out for each other. Niall catches a glimpse of himself in the mirrored wall of the lift, that’s climbing to Harry’s Penthouse, and his eyes harden. Looking out for Louis is exactly why he’s here. 

The lift dings as the doors slide open, announcing his arrival. Niall grabs the key Harry had given him a couple weeks ago, most definitely not with this kind of visit in mind, and slips it into his back pocket. He’s got a hardcover book with him and he glances down at it, he’s half tempted to just wack Harry across the head with it as soon as he sees the fucking arsehole. But, that won’t get the right message across. He takes a steadying breath and walks into the flat calling Harry’s name. 

Harry appears from down the hall, just a second later, wearing a soft looking pair of joggers, a gray t shirt, and a confused expression. He smiles with uncertainty when he realises it’s Niall, “Oh, hey Ni. I’m sorry, were we supposed to meet up today?” 

Niall gives him an easy smile, the one just about everyone around him expects him to always wear. Except Louis. The thought of his best friend pisses him off again, but he keeps his expression schooled, “Nah, just wanted to stop by. Got something to show you.” 

Harry’s eyes flit down to the book in his hand and then back up quickly, but he doesn’t comment. He pauses, then seems to remember his manners and waves him further into the Penthouse. Turning, he starts walking towards the kitchen and looks over his shoulder, “Do you want anything to drink? I’ve got pretty much everything in the bar.” 

Niall holds the book a little closer to his chest, clutching his fingers against the binding in an attempt to keep his cool, “No, no I’m good.” 

The marble floor clicks noisily under Harry’s heeled boots. He busies himself with making himself a drink and then turns back to Niall. He leans against the counter which puts the island stretched out between them, “So, what’s up?” 

Niall lets his smile drop and tosses the book onto the island loudly. The thud of the hardcover smacking against the marble island top visibly startles Harry. Niall gives it a rough shove and sends it sliding over to him. 

Harry hesitates and then picks it up. He eyes the cover for a second, before glancing back up at Niall and then down again. Clearing his throat, he reads aloud, “‘Life and Lies of London’,” He tosses the book back down and shakes his head slowly, “I don’t understand.” 

Niall crosses his arms over his chest, the rage he’s been feeling ever since Louis had come bounding into the flat with red rimmed eyes, rolling off him in waves. Here Harry is, standing around like everything is right as rain, while Louis is probably back at home sniffling on the sofa and trying (and failing) to pretend he’s not heartbroken while watching Grease. _ Again. _

“Sitting on the top of the bestsellers list right now, that book is,” Niall says, no longer trying to conceal the anger in his voice, “Turns out some bird decided bartending for the rich and famous wasn’t bringing in enough money, so she decided to start anonymously writing up the drunken stories she was hearing from the celebrities too sloshed to care if anyone was listening.” 

Harry shakes his head again but Niall can tell there’s a spark of understanding there. Niall rolls his shoulders back, “Can you guess which hotel she used to bartend at, Harry?”

Harry opens his mouth and shuts it again, floundering. Niall’s anger, impossibly, grows stronger. He plants his hands flat on the island and leans forward, “Here, you fucking git. She worked here, right down fucking stairs. And she’s just done an interview practically admitting it was her that wrote that article about you.” 

Niall’s words slice through the air of the Penthouse, sharp as they are. Everyone thinks he’s always happy go lucky, that he’s on cloud nine every hour of every day. And sure, he’s a pretty easy going guy. But his rage is fairly unmatched when it’s got a good enough reason to show. 

Harry blinks and his shoulders come in a little, like he’s trying to protect himself from Niall’s rage, “I don’t,” he starts, and then swallows, never finishing the sentence. 

Niall grinds his teeth, “You know the article, right? The one that you accused my best mate of writing? The one you threw him out on his ear over, without so much as a fucking discussion?”

Harry straightens at that and anger flashes across his face, clear as day, “I didn’t chuck  him out, he fucking dumped a drink down my pants. If anyone should be upset-” 

Niall lunges forward, cutting off Harry’s sentence with a growl, “If you finish that sentence, I swear to God I’ll pummel you.” 

The stand in the kitchen silently for a long moment, staring at each other with heaving chests. Niall’s anger hasn’t ebbed like it does over other things. This is his best mate he’s come here over, and Niall’s nothing if loyal to a fault. 

“The next time I see Louis so much as uncomfortable and I find out you are to blame,” Niall growls, waiting for Harry to meet his eyes, “I will rip you to shreds without a moment’s hesitation.” 

Harry’s first to look away, hiding it behind a defiant roll of his eyes, “Your point has been received, loud and clear.” 

Niall narrows his eyes, “Good.” 

With one last look of disgust, Niall marches out of the kitchen to the lift, pressing the button with a bit more force than necessary. He feels Harry’s eyes on his back while he waits for the lift to arrive, but he really couldn't care less if he tried. 

Fuck Harry. 

  
  


Louis goes on with his life. 

He writes his shitty gossip columns for the shitty magazine, eats copious amounts of takeout, watches an unhealthy amount of telly, and wears threadbare joggers every day. Everything in his life goes right back to normal, to how it was before Harry swept in with his strawberry champagne and ridiculous fur coats. 

Harry’s more or less in the past. He’s still calling and trying to apologise , but Louis is a master of the freeze out. A freeze out pro, if you will. 

“Are you going to answer that?” Niall asks, coming in through the front door, nodding his head in the direction of Louis’s phone. It gives another shrill ring, vibrating across the top of the coffee table. 

From the take out box in his lap, Louis picks a nacho with the perfect ratio of cheese to sour cream and pops it into his mouth, “Nope.” 

Niall throws the lock on the door and ambles over. He plops himself down on the couch with so much force Louis almost bounces off the other side. As it is, Louis has to quickly catch a nacho that nearly meets an untimely end. 

“Harry again, then?” He asks breezily, unaffected by the glare Louis is giving him. 

If he was sensitive to Louis’ propensity for dirty looks, they wouldn’t have made it past Primary. 

“Yup,” Louis responds, grabbing another chip, “It’s always Harry.” 

Niall leans forward for a chip, picking the easiest to access. Great friend Niall, but he’s got no chip picking etiquette . 

“Why don’t you just shut your phone off?” A bit of chip flies from his mouth, and lands on the couch, “Or block his number.” 

Both reasonable and viable options, neither of which Louis is going to take part in. 

He shoves up from the couch and shuffles to the fridge, “Someone might need to get in contact with me,” Pulling out two beers, he holds one up to Niall in offering. Niall nods, “And if I block him he’ll think my phone is off. I want him to know I’m ignoring him.” 

It might not be a mature or level headed reaction, but Louis has never claimed to be either of those things. And really, Harry fucking deserves it. Although, if Louis hadn’t gone soft and actually believed him to be a normal human under all the glitz and glamour, he wouldn’t even be in this mess. So, maybe it’s a little Louis’ fault. 

But only a very small percentage. A miniscule amount. 

Walking back to the couch, he drops down onto the cushion with a huff and holds the beer out to Niall. 

Niall takes it with a nod of thanks, “Like the time I ruined your term paper and you responded to all my texts with ‘read’.” 

See, Niall always understands. Louis tips his bottle at him, “Exactly right.” 

Niall chuckles and takes a pull from his beer, and Louis goes back to finding the next top model of crisps. They both freeze when the door handle jiggles.

Louis snaps his head around at Niall, who’s staring at the door in confusion, “Did you invite someone over?” 

Niall’s shaking his head before Louis’s even finished the sentence, “No, I don’t know-”

The handle gives another jiggle and then, much to Louis’ horror, the door swings open. Liam comes breezing in, carrying a stack of magazines. Zayn follows him, shoving a little black pouch in his back pocket. 

Niall gapes at them, “Have you got a key?” 

Zayn sits on the loveseat without so much as a nod to either of the legal occupants of the flat he’s just broken into, and eyes the nacho plate. 

Louis grabs it up and holds it close to his chest with a glare. 

Liam tosses the stack of magazines on the coffee table, “No, I’ve got a Zayn,” he replies, gesturing vaguely in Zayn’s direction, “Look at these.” 

Dozens of celebrities in varying poses stare up at them from the front of the magazines. Why Liam would think Louis has any interest in gossip rags when he literally writes for one is beyond him. He considers brushing him off and going back to his nachos, but Liam’s got his serious face on. So, with a sigh, he puts them aside and picks one up, and immediately figures out the reason behind the face.

“Harry Styles out on the town with new It  girl, Alisha Groves,” Louis reads from the front of the first tabloid. A picture of Harry, in a flashy red coat, and a blonde woman in way less fabric, is positioned in the middle of the page. 

Niall grabs another from the table and clears his throat theatrically. “‘Spotted on the town: Harry Styles and new girl Aisha Thomas look cozy leaving a nightclub together.’” 

“‘Styles and sin: Harry Styles caught leaving an exclusive strip club with model Tanisha Roberts on his arm’”, Liam reads, tossing the magazine back down on the table, “They’re all like that.” 

Louis rolls his eyes, “What did he do, go to the ‘isha’ section of his little black book, and call someone new each night?” 

It’s a joke, of course, because no one actually does something like that. But no one laughs. 

Louis blinks and turns to Zayn slowly, “You’re kidding right?” 

Zayn shakes his head, “He says you won't answer the phone.” 

Somehow Louis has entered into some weird alternate dimension without realising it. Any minute now a unicorn is going to walk straight through the kitchen. Because only in some other fucking dimension would anyone possibly blame Louis, for any of this. 

“So it’s my fault that Harry’s a sex crazed lunatic who will sleep with anything that holds still long enough?” Louis is shouting and he knows he shouldn’t be, but this is not his fucking problem, and he doesn’t appreciate it being pinned on him. 

Zayn narrows his eyes, “He’s not a fucking sex crazed anything, he’s distracting himself. He’s trying to keep his mind off  _ you _ .”

“Well, maybe you should be out getting him some crossword puzzles instead of coming here bothering me,” Louis snaps. 

“Lou, hey wait a minute,” Liam says quietly, trying to calm him with a gentle voice, “We’re not here to fight.” 

Louis leans back and looks at him, incredulous, “Seems like you are to me.” 

Zayn mirrors his posture, but snorts, “That’s what you lot do, not us. ” 

Louis narrows his eyes, confused, “What are you talking about?” 

Niall shifts uncomfortably, but stays silent. Louis catches the movement from the corner of his eye and narrows his eyes at him suspiciously, “Niall?” 

They all sit in silence, more or less staring Niall down. Louis’ rage is still rolling around under the surface, mixed together with the hurt and the sadness, but he doesn’t yell at Niall. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because yelling has never worked on Niall, for a single person, since the man was old enough to talk. 

Liam is the one to try again, shifting in his chair to look at him straight on, “Niall, I think he deserves to know. Don’t you?” 

Niall rolls his shoulders back, bristling. But, Liam has pulled just the right string, whether he knows it or not, to have Niall’s resolve start unraveling, “I went to see Harry a couple days ago.” 

Louis drops back onto the couch, “Fucking hell, Niall.” 

“I just showed him that stupid book. I didn’t do anything to him,” Niall grumbles. He shoots Zayn a dirty look, “I wasn’t looking for a fight.” 

“Yeah, I’d love to see you when you are looking for one,” Zayn snaps back. 

“That can be arranged,” Niall mutters lowly. 

Zayn bares his teeth and makes to retort, but Liam puts his hand on his arm firmly and Zayn rolls his eyes at looking away, “Whatever.” 

“I don’t get what the point of this is,” Louis says, gesturing between Liam and Zayn, “Why are you here, if you’re not blaming me? Is this some kind of sick guilt trip, because I’ve got to tell you, that’s pretty fucked up.” 

Liam winces, “He’s Zayn’s best friend, one of my closest friends too. I know things didn’t end-“

“Didn’t end well,” Louis interrupts, expression incredulous, “He genuinely thought I wrote his closest kept secret in a fucking tabloid. He accused me of being a gold digger, Liam. Accused me of fucking him for  _ money _ .”

“He can be a bit-“ 

“I’m in love with him,” Louis says over Liam’s response. His voice cracks horribly, “Or I was, I guess. Still am probably. Did you know that?” 

The entire room is frozen, Zayn doesn’t even appear to be breathing. Louis would laugh at them, if he had the ability to find anything funny anymore. 

“No,” Liam whispers finally, glancing at Zayn and then down at floor, “No, I didn’t know. But, he’s self destructing, Lou. Zayn can’t get through to him, I can’t get through to him. All he does is get as drunk  as humanly possible, and pretend you’re not ignoring him.” 

Louis looks to Niall and thinks about what Niall had done for him, by going to confront Harry. And he thinks about what he’d do for Niall, which is just about anything, and how he would feel if Niall was the acting like Louis is now. Zayn’s rage makes a lot more sense. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis mumurms, staring down at his hands in his lap, “I’m sorry that he’s- that he’s not handling this well. And I’m sorry you guys have to watch him hurt himself,” He looks up and meets Zayn’s eyes, “But, I’m not going to talk to him. Not now, maybe not ever. What Harry needs is therapy, not me.”

His voice rings with finality that they can all clearly hear. This issue isn’t up for debate. After a few beats, Niall and Zayn, in a strange show of synchronisation, stand at the same time. Niall clears his throat, “Maybe you guys should go.”

Liam looks up, catching Louis’ gaze and holding it. It’s like he’s trying to figure something out, put together a puzzle with too few pieces. Louis just stares back. Finally, Liam nods, “Yeah, okay.” 

Zayn walks behind Liam to the door, one hand resting on his lower back in a possessive manner. Maybe protective. Maybe a little bit of both. With the door open, Liam pauses, looking back over his shoulder, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry this happened, Lou.” 

Louis does his level best not to curl his lip, “You and me both.” 

Once the door is closed and locked, Louis counts to 100 before slumping down and letting out a sob. 

Niall silently sits down next to him, and props him against his side. They’ve been through a lot together, Louis and Niall over the years, but as Louis’ body shudders with each sob that he just can’t seem to stop, Louis thinks he might not ever have been more grateful for his best friend than in that moment. 


	8. Eight

Falling in love, for Louis, had been a sudden, painless kind of thing. One day he was just Louis, just one person occupying one soul. And the next, he looked up and his heart was a little more crowded, his soul had expanded and made room for another person. It couldn’t really be called falling at all, it was more like drifting, like in a dream on a cloud. 

Falling is painful and abrupt. Falling is a much better way to describe heartbreak, the kind that Louis is wading in right now, anyway. Aggravating as it is painful, it distracts you from every other thing in you life. Sometimes, while he’s washing his hair, Louis is suddenly, and randomly hit with a wave of sadness so strong his hands shake. In the line at the supermarket, he’ll be counting lemons one second, and the next blinking back tears. Those stupid, useless little reminders ruin his mood for hours each time, which results in just about a permanent mood of despair. But, what it really fucks with, is his ability to sit down and write an article. 

Once he realised writing was going to be near impossible, and in turn paying his bills, he started researching ways to help his concentration. He’d briefly considered waiting out the pain, but he’s not stupid enough to think this,  _ Harry _ , is something he’s going to get over quickly. Or, at all, which is a thought that sends him spiraling again, so he tries to avoid it. The most promising tactic he’d found for concentration, is writing with classical music playing in his earbuds. It’s simple, yet effective, and for the first time in a couple weeks, Louis is able to write again. 

It’s because of this new tactic, Louis doesn’t hear the knocking at first. Mid sentence, Louis’ fingers pause over the keys and he furrows his brow. A second passes, and there it is again, a pounding sound that decidedly does not belong in “Ave Nocturne”. Pausing the music, he pulls out his ear buds and heads towards the front door. 

Niall is always forgetting his keys. He blames it on growing up in a small town, where no one ever had to lock the front door. But, Louis grew up in that same town and he’s able to hold on to his set for more than a week, which is more than can be said for Niall. He’s preparing to remind him of that fact, when he opens the door and finds Harry on the other side. 

Louis’ heart drops to his toes. He’s instantly overwhelmed with several different emotions. On one hand, he wants to go into the kitchen, get the heaviest mug they have and chuck it at Harry’s head. On the other, the pain of missing Harry rushed to the surface at full force as soon as he’d laid eyes on him, and he would really like to jump into his arms. On yet another hand, a borrowed hand since Louis has run out, he’d really like to know what the fuck is going on. 

Before Louis can decide on a way to react, Harry produces a bouquet of sunflowers from behind his back and holds it out to him hesitantly, “Hi, Lou.” 

Louis swallows and takes them. The cellophane crinkles noisy under his fingers. He takes a moment, staring down at them, and then meets Harry’s eyes. Taking a step back, he gestures toward the kitchen, “Come in, then.” 

Harry blinks, surprised even though that’s obviously what he’d come here with the intention of doing. But, he gets over his surprise quickly, rushing through the door as fast as his legs can carry him, like he doesn’t want to give Louis a chance to change his mind. 

It’s a good plan, because by the time Harry gets to the kitchen table Louis has already changed it three times. 

“Sit,” Louis snaps, and then realising he sounds a bit like he’s talking to a dog, he tries again, “Please. Sit down please.” 

Louis sits in the chair across the table, laying the sunflowers down between them. The chair creaks under Harry’s weight, but there’s otherwise no sound in the room for several minutes. 

Louis starts to get a little restless, a little fidgety. It’s just so awkward in a way that it’s never been with them. Louis can practically feel the anger and pain that he’s been beating down, crackle through the room like static electricity. It makes the raw pain of the situation throb, and suddenly Louis needs to do something with his hands.

“Do you want some tea,” he says, so flatly it can’t be mistaken for a question, standing and moving to the counter. Preparing the mugs means putting his back to Harry. It helps. “I’ve got herbal if you want.” 

“Yeah, please. That would be nice.” 

Louis nods but doesn’t turn around, instead flicking on the electric kettle and dropping the tea bags in each mug. It only takes a few moments, but he feels steadier by the time he goes back to the table with the mugs in hand. 

His hands only shake a little when he levels Harry with a stern look, “Why are you here?” 

“I want you back,” Harry gulps visibly, but doesn’t drop his gaze, “I know I was wrong. I know you would never do that. I’m here to get you back.” 

Somehow, Louis had forgotten how direct Harry can be. It takes him a couple seconds to calm his heart rate, “I’m not sure I want to come back, Harry.” 

It’s not true, not even a little. He wants to run back to Harry more than he wants to breathe. Of that he is absolutely sure. He’s not so solid on whether or not his heart will forgive him if he shuts off his brain and make the same exact mistake all over again. 

“I get that,” Harry says quietly, but earnestly, “I understand why you would feel that way. I was a dick.” 

“Past tense implies a change in behavior,” Louis spits out, and then takes a sip of tea to keep himself from blurting something else out. 

Harry’s mouth quips up just a little, a ghost of a smile. Louis’ narrows his eyes at that and Harry hurries on, “I would like to think I have. I would like to  _ show _ you I have.”

Louis holds the mug between his palms, letting the warmth seep into his skin, and watches Harry over the lip, “Show me how?” 

“I have a list.” 

Well. “A list?” 

Harry leans forward awkwardly and reaches into his back pocket, tugging a couple of times. Louis watches him carefully as he puts a wrinkled piece of yellow notebook paper on the table. Silently, he tries to work the wrinkles out by pressing it down with the palms of of his hands. 

“Should I-” Harry starts, looking from the paper to Louis and then back again, “Do you want me to read it or -” 

Louis nods slowly and takes another sip of his tea, “Go ahead.” 

“Okay. Um,” Harry takes a deep breath and clears his throat, “Number one: Go to therapy together.” 

“Like couples counseling?” Louis quirks a brow, “We aren’t a couple, I know you’re a busy man, but surely you didn’t forget -” 

“No. Well, not really. I’ve been talking to William about you,” Harry looks at him, searching his face for a response. Louis expression remains hard, so he goes on, “Not like gossiping or anything. Just, he’s helping me ‘take accountability for my own shit’, and what I did was shit. So, we talk about it and he’s helped me.” 

The admission softens Louis just a bit. It feels like a bit of the beast, bred from heartache and anger, coiled up inside his psyche, relaxes a muscle or two, “So you want me there to do what?”

Harry’s eyes drop to the paper again, “I want to prove to you that I’m working on the wall. Because I don't want you to ever be on that side of it again.” 

Louis slumps against his chair with a sigh, the beast rolls it’s shoulders back, “Oh.” 

Harry looks up slowly and then holds his gaze. Whatever he sees in Louis’ expression must embolden him, because he sits up a little straighter before reading again. 

“Number two: I would like you to meet my sister.”

“Um,” Louis clears his throat uncomfortably, “Why?” 

Harry glances up and then shakes his head, “Not like, come meet my parents because I want to propose. I want you to meet her, because she’ important to me, and you’ve only not met because I’ve been keeping you at a distance.” 

“Jesus, how much therapy have you had in three weeks,” Louis says, running a hand over his face. Nothing Harry is saying is wrong, or offensive. But it’s just. It’s a lot.

“A lot,” Harry says, “Like everyday, a lot.”

Louis closes his eyes, “Listen, Harry-” 

“I’ve got one more,” Harry interrupts, looking a little panicked, like he knows this isn’t working, “I want to support you.” 

“Support me,” Louis says slowly, furrowing his brow, “What does that mean?” 

“I know your dreams, I know writing for rags isn’t it,” Harry shrugs, and runs his fingers through his hair, “I want to support you, so you don’t have to worry about doing what you want to actually do. You can move in with me if you want, I know that’s fast but -” 

Louis’ chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he flies up from the table and stands, sending it crashing to the ground. The beast roars, foaming at the mouth. Louis’ hands shake worse than before. 

“You’re offering me money,” Louis snarls at him, “After calling me a fucking gold digger, a whore more like it, you come here and try to get me back with  _ money _ !” 

Harry stands slowly, hands out like he’s approaching a wild animal, “Lou, that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry that I acted that way. I already told you, I don’t actually think-” 

“Get out.” 

Harry blinks, “What?”

Louis kicks the chair aside and strides to the door, flinging it open with such force it slams into the wall behind with a  _ crack _ , “Get the fuck out of my house.” 

Harry doesn’t move, instead just staring at Louis from the table, frozen. With each passing second Louis’ rage grows, until he’s ready to walk back into the kitchen and drive his fist into Harry’s jaw. 

He grits his teeth and points into the hall, “Get out, Harry. Now.” 

Hearing his name seems to snap Harry out of his shock, his jaw clenches tightly. He grabs the paper off the table, shoving it in his back pocket. Striding to and through the door, he walks out, not stopping to look back. 

Louis slams the door behind him and stalks to the kitchen table. He snatches the salt shaker off the table and holds it at his side. He wants to smash things, wants to throw it across the room just to hear it shatter. He takes a deep, shaky breath and drops it to the ground. Planting his hands flat on the table top, he leans forward and breathes heavily through his nose, trying to regain control. 

He’s almost got his heart rate back to normal, when there’s a banging on the front door so loud, it sends the mirror on the wall next to it shaking. He spins around and stares at the door, chest heaving, eyes narrowed. 

“Who is it?” He shouts, knowing very well exactly who it is. 

The pounding stops for a second and then restarts, louder. The door shakes on its frame from the force. The rage bubbles right back up. 

Louis rips open the door and draws his hand back, ready to strike. But, Harry’s faster, grabbing his wrist he stops the motion and then shoves him back into the flat with a hand flat on the middle of his chest. He steps in after him and slams the door.

“You’re going to fucking listen to me,” Harry says low, fierce, angry. 

Louis’ eyes bug out of his head, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” 

Harry takes three steps forward rapidly, encroaching in Louis’ space, “Probably. I probably am. I probably lost a bit of my fucking mind when I watched you walk away from me. So you’re going to listen to me, because I know I fucked up, but you’re not perfect either Louis.” 

“I don’t care what you have to say,” Louis snaps, “I want you to leave.” 

“Well, tough shit,” Harry takes another step forward so he’s looming over him. He’s furious, but not cold, not removed. It’s a look Louis has never seen on him, “I’m not leaving. I’m in love with you, I’ve probably been in love with you from the moment I met you and you feel the same way. I know you do, I can see it. You can’t tell me you don’t.” 

Louis spreads his arms wide, exasperated, “So? So the fuck what? You loved me when you were accusing me of leaving your bed to tell your secrets to the world for a few quid. Fat lot of good your love did me then.” 

“And you loved me when you were just waiting for this relationship to fail,” Harry shouts back, “You loved me when you were sitting around waiting for me to fuck up. You thought I was a joke from the beginning, that I’m not even capable of having a relationship.” 

Louis’ jaw snaps shut and he takes a step back, “Well, I was right, wasn’t I?” 

Pain, clear as day, slides across Harry’s face. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth. When he opens them again, they shine wetly, “No. You are my best friend. You’re the only one who has ever loved me for me, not for what I have to give. I’m a little fucked up, and I was wrong. But, you’re not right about that. I am capable of having a relationship and I’m going to have one with you.” 

Louis shakes his head, “You think we can just pick up where we left off? Like everything is just going to be fine. It’s not.” 

“I don’t want to pick up where we left off,” Harry drags his hand through his hair, pulling a little like he’s thinking of ripping it out at the root, “I want to start again. All over. I want you to give me a chance to start again, give us a chance.”

The anger that had been bolstering Louis starts slipping away, leaving him feeling naked and vulnerable, like a raw nerve, “It’s not that easy.” 

Harry reaches out, raising his hand between them slowly, eyes watching Louis’ reaction closely. When Louis doesn’t shy away, he cups his jaw, rubbing his thumb over his cheekbone, inhaling sharply when Louis leans into the touch, “Tell me what I have to do. I swear I’ll do it.” 

Harry’s touch, after so many weeks of nothing at all, is like a pure shot of adrenaline. The beast unravels and melts away and Louis’ throat goes thick. 

“I don’t know, Harry,” He closes his eyes rather than let the tears leak out, “I don’t know what I need.” 

Harry’s other hand comes up, mirroring his right, gently holding Louis’ face, “There’s no one in the world who will love you like I love you.” 

It’s a ridiculous statement, maybe even a little narcissistic if you squint. But, Louis knows it’s the truth. He opens his eyes and stares into Harry’s, a little scared and a lot at a loss for words. 

“Just tell me we can start again,” Harry continues, whispering now, “Tell me you won’t give up on me, because, baby, I swear I’m never going to give up on you. Tell me that you’ll try even though you’re scared.” 

Louis thinks about Harry’s wall, and then he thinks of his own. The one he put up years ago, constructed of shattered pieces of his heart and held together by spite and fear. When Niall teases him about, he can brush it off, pretend its not real. But, he can’t right now, doesn’t want to anymore. 

“Okay,” Louis breathes, blinking slowly, “Okay, I want to try.” 

Harry stares at him in wonder, eyes wide and searching. He sways a little, like maybe his legs aren’t going to hold him, “Really?” 

Louis takes a step closer, “Really. We can do it, we can fight for us.” 

With a whimper of relief, Harry pulls him in and kisses him roughly, “Baby.” 

Louis smiles against his mouth, not ready to part from him, not even an inch, “I know. Me too.” 

It’s Harry that pulls away first, grabbing hold of Louis’ hand and steering him to the couch, where he pulls Louis into his lap and wraps his arms around him. When he speaks, its from above Louis’ head, “I know you don’t want me for my money. I know you’re not that kind of person.” 

Louis resists the urge to shut down the conversation, instead taking a deep breath, “No, I’m not.” 

“But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop wanting to help you,” Harry leans back and looks him in the eye, “Just because you can do something on your own, doesn’t mean you have to. You aren’t alone anymore. We’re a team, partners, aren’t we?” 

Louis grimaces and looks away, “We are. But I’m not a charity case.” 

“Am I?” 

Louis snaps his head around, “ _ No _ .” 

“You give me your time,” Harry says with a cocked brow, “A lot of it. And emotional support. You keep my head on straight. Do you do that out of pity?” 

“No, I -” Louis sighs, “I love you. I do that because I love you.” 

Harry nods, “I love you too, and I want to  _ help, _ not treat you like a charity case.” 

“I know it was hard for you to come back after I made you leave,” Louis holds up his hand and shakes his head when Harry opens his mouth, like he’s ready to protest, “I’m not changing the subject. I’m saying the Harry before would have looked at that slammed door, turned on his heel, and found some model to take to dinner. So, you’re right, you have changed.”

Harry narrows his eyes, “That’s still changing the subject.” 

“No,” Louis denies with a laugh, “No, because I’m still acting like the same Louis. The Louis that doesn’t accept help. The Louis that doesn’t think you’re in this for the long haul, because you’re big and famous and  _ you. _ ” 

Louis pauses, collecting his thoughts. Harry waits patiently, rubbing his hand down Louis’ back, “And?” 

“And, I’m changing. So, I’ll accept your help Harry Styles, but only if you keep being honest with me, and if you agree to let me pay you back when I become a world famous author.” 

Harry squeezes him and smiles brightly, “What’s the exchange rate for quid to blowjobs, do you think?” 

Louis twists in his lap and pinches him viciously, not stopping until Harry cries uncle and lays out flat on the sofa. And then he kisses each mark all better. 

“You know, Niall is a bit of a wildcard,” Harry says sometime later, lazily dragging his fingers through Louis’ hair, “Isn’t he?” 

“He gives Zayn a run for his money, on the overprotective friend front,” Louis responds, snuggling in closer, “I think he’s going to give Liam an ulcer one day.” 

Harry snorts, “I’m sure.”

Louis smiles, “We’re quite a group, us.” 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, “Yeah we are.” 

There’s still so much to work on, so much to unwrap and unravel. They need help probably, therapy definitely. And they’ll have to work on communication, on forgiveness, on letting each other in. But, laying together on Louis’ historic, lumpy sofa, Louis has never felt more at home. 

And this is only the beginning. 

_ Fin  _

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this fic and would like to share it, [heres a fic post](http://fullonlarrie.tumblr.com/post/180018946080/24k-magic-by-justalittlelouislove-i-know-i-bet)
> 
> And if you'd like to chat, I'm over on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justalittlelouislove)


End file.
